


Lucky

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Dating, F/M, Identity Porn, M/M, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Secret Relationship, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:58:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 59
Words: 109,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it takes nearly 110k words for Peter, El and Neal to all get together. A slow-burn romance with dating, negotiations and lots of feelings and sex. Set during season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treonb](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=treonb), [nagasvoice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagasvoice/gifts), [maiac](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=maiac).



> Set during season 2. Contains references up to the end of season 3.
> 
> Part one was written for the Games challenge on fan_flashworks, and for treonb's prompt. Part two was for nagasvoice's prompt, and part three for maiac's. 
> 
> Enormous, epic, extravagant thanks to mergatrude for beta and cheerleading (I think I owe her a new car or something), to cyphomandra for plot construction and beta, especially of the crime subplot and action scene, and to bethbethbeth for Ameri-picking. <3
> 
> Thanks also to dragonfly for helpful advice about sports, which didn't quite make it into chapter 29. (But if you're wondering, the game Peter's watching is a Giants' pre-season game.) <3

El had three aces. She nibbled her way through the open packet of nacho chips on the table and looked at her cards again. "Wow."

Luck was with her today. The airline had found room for her on the next flight home, and Peter was safe. He was stable. He was sleeping. Neal had insisted on seeing El home from the hospital. She was jetlagged and tense with worry, but there was nothing to worry about anymore and she was home. She'd thought she'd fall asleep the moment the door closed behind her, but Neal followed her in, hovering, concerned, and somehow here they were, sitting at the dining table playing high stakes poker. It had been her idea. She was too wired to sleep yet. It was ten-thirty, felt like seven-thirty. Peter was safe.

The corner of Neal's mouth twitched. "You can't win."

"Only because I've run out of things to bet. I have a winning hand—" El rifled through the magazine from which she'd torn her stakes. "—but all I've got here is a four-page spread about Michelle Obama, an interview with Kathryn Stockett about The Help and an article on work-life balance."

"There's always your jewelry," said Neal. 

El was too tired to be sure he was teasing. "I'm not betting my jewelry."

"I won three wedding rings in a single evening, once." He sounded nostalgic. 

"I'm not betting my wedding ring," said El, scandalized. She couldn't imagine being that desperate or that reckless. "What would Peter say?" 

Neal grinned wickedly. "He'd adjust. I mean, I presume Peter would come with the ring."

El shook her head with a fond smile. Neal's crush on Peter was adorable, and he was so open about it—and so accepting of its futility—that it was impossible to feel threatened or offended. Perhaps he was overstepping their usual bounds tonight, but then, they were both punch drunk with relief that Peter was okay. He was going to be fine.

"Anyway," said Neal slyly, "I thought you had a winning hand."

"And I thought our stakes were supposed to be hypothetical," said El, gesturing at Neal's accumulated pile of magazine pages. "I've already bet a new Mercedes and the Taj Mahal."

"Admit it. You're out."

"No," said El. "There must be something. Oh, I know." She darted across the room and dug into the stack of board games by the disused fax machine, emerging triumphantly with a Get Out of Jail Free card from the Monopoly set. "There."

Neal laughed outright. "If you could get Peter to back it, I'd bite. Hypothetically? Not so much."

"You're not being very chivalrous," said El reproachfully.

Neal shrugged. "You're the one who wanted to learn the subtleties of high stakes poker."

"You're the one who wouldn't play for chips."

"You don't have any chips, and it's more interesting this way," said Neal. "Psychologically."

El sighed long-sufferingly at him. "So what then?"

"I can think of one thing." Neal gave her his innocent look.

El was immediately suspicious. If she'd had glasses, she would've eyeballed him over the frames, but she didn't so she just raised her eyebrows sternly.

"Keeping in mind that you have a winning hand," said Neal.

"Mmm-hmm?"

Neal blinked angelically and suggested, "You could wager a kiss from Peter."

El felt her eyes widen. "Oh, I don't think—"

"Purely hypothetical," said Neal quickly.

El studied him. For all that Neal wore his heart on his sleeve, practically as a decoration, it wasn't like him to be so specific, and there was a wistful note in his teasing. Perhaps the last twenty-four hours had thrown him more than he was prepared to admit. "You'd accept that as a stake?"

"Why not? More fun to fantasize about than the Taj Mahal." He grinned. "I'm kidding!"

His grin was too wide, and she didn't think he was kidding, but it was a hypothetical kiss. She could spare him that much. And she had three aces. "Okay, fine." She grabbed a piece of note paper from the pad by the phone and made it official. "One hypothetical kiss from Peter." She placed it on Neal's latest stake—an advertisement for a diamond-studded Rolex—and said, "I call." 

"What have you got?" Neal leaned forward.

El spread her cards on the table: the aces, a seven and a three. "Do I win?"

Neal hesitated, just fractionally, and then folded his cards and put them in a neat pile, face down. "You win."

"Really?" El couldn't quite believe it. Three aces seemed impressive, but she was playing Neal Caffrey.

"Don't sound so surprised," said Neal, mocking her gently.

"I just—" El pulled the stack of magazine pages toward her, the promise of a kiss. "I don't know what I expected. Some kind of magic trick. Cheating. Something."

"You wound me," said Neal ironically, and then his tone turned serious. "I would never cheat you, Elizabeth." El thought he might not be talking about poker.

She eyed his folded cards. "I notice you haven't shown me your hand."

Neal was already reaching for the rest of the deck. He shuffled his cards in, riffled the pack expertly. "One of the rules of poker: never show your hand if you don't have to. It gives your opponent too much information."

"I'll remember that." El watched him handle the cards, his long fingers confident and quick, his secrets folded away among the hearts and clubs. She gave him her own cards, and he shuffled those in too, all her aces. So much luck. El swallowed. "I haven't thanked you for saving Peter's life."

"You don't have to." He didn't look up, didn't meet her eye. For a moment, she thought he was going to change the subject, but then he set the deck down, the cards perfectly aligned, and said as if he were confessing, "You know, Peter insisted I go back for Kent. He was dying, he could've died right there by the elevator, but he wouldn't let me leave Kent behind. You know what he said? 'Do what's right, let the pieces fall where they fall.'"

"That sounds like Peter," said El. She refused to think about what might have happened, how badly it could have turned out. Peter was safe. The bad guys were under arrest. Might-have-beens would only give her nightmares. "You saved him. He's safe because of you. Thank you. Really."

Neal's gaze was eloquent and a little heart-breaking, and it was all getting a bit much for El to handle in her current state of post-panic, light-headed jetlag, so she was almost relieved when she spoiled the moment with a wide yawn.

"Okay, well." She yawned again and stood up, found herself looking down at Neal and overtaken with a wave of affection and warmth. "Neal, you know not everything has to be won, conned or stolen, right?"

He looked up from the table, his expression wry, and she wanted to hug him but she didn't. Instead, she took the note from her pile of winnings, the one promising a kiss from Peter, and crossed out the word "hypothetical". She skirted the table and folded the note into Neal's hand.

He was startled, almost alarmed. "Elizabeth?"

"I don't know if it's redeemable," said El. "That's up to Peter—but you have my permission to give it your best shot if you want to."

Neal looked terribly earnest. "You really don't have to do this."

"I know," said El, and she bent and kissed him on the temple, exactly the way Peter kissed her sometimes. Protective, fond. When she straightened, she realized that tiredness was rising up in her like a heavy wave, and if she didn't go to bed immediately, she was going to end up sleeping on the couch because the stairs were too much. "I have to crash," she said, patting his shoulder. "Let yourself out, okay? Or if you want to take the guest room, help yourself. Sorry, I really need to sleep."

She left him at the table, the promise in his hand, and shuffled off to bed, where there were no nightmares, no terrible things, and when she woke early the next morning, alone in her and Peter's bed, it was with a profound sense of peacefulness. She remembered everything. Peter was safe. Neal had her promise. She had no regrets.

Three aces.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter dropped his bag by his dresser in the bedroom and stopped to kiss El on the way to get a towel. He was worn out just from the trip home, but now he was here, he was going to take a shower in his own bathroom, dammit, and wash off the last traces of hospital bed.

El touched his cheek as she kissed him back. It had been a close call with the digitalis, and it was going to be a while before she could take him for granted again, he knew. He smiled down at her, reminding her he was okay. "God, it's good to be home with my beautiful wife and my dog and no IV or monitoring machines or hospital food."

"Right back where you belong." El squeezed his arm and didn't argue when he headed for the shower instead of the bed, despite the doctor's order to rest.

The shower was blissfully hot. Peter took his time and emerged a new man, albeit a sleepy one. It was mid-afternoon, but he needed a nap before dinner. He toweled off quickly and found El sitting on the bed, reading.

"You look like you're about to keel over," she said. "Sleep?"

"Yeah." Peter was out the moment his head hit the pillow. The soft kiss on his forehead might have been a dream.

When he woke, it was dark and he felt a hundred times better. All he'd really needed was to be home, in his bed, surrounded by familiar things. He got up and went downstairs, where El was sitting on the couch, reading and eating a sandwich, with Satchmo curled up on his mat at her feet. El put down her book immediately. "You want something?"

"I'm good." He waved her to stay there and went to make himself an extravagant sandwich. It was exhilarating to be upright and capable again, even in this small way. Satchmo came in to investigate what Peter was doing, and Peter gave him a treat, just for the hell of it.

A glass of milk too, and Peter took his spoils out to sit next to El on the couch. "Hey."

"Hey, hon." El folded her feet under her, turning so she could face him. She grinned at his threadbare Springsteen t-shirt—the one she'd been trying to jettison for years. "Welcome home."

Peter bit into his sandwich with relish. So many flavors. It was good to be alive.

"So. There's something I have to tell you." El plucked at the edge of a cushion. "While you were in the hospital, uh, Neal and I played poker."

"Don't tell me—" Peter swallowed his mouthful. "You lost the house to Neal."

El relaxed slightly. "I did," she said solemnly. "Sorry, hon. On the bright side, we negotiated a very reasonable lease, and I think he's going to be a great landlord."

Peter grinned, then blinked. "You are kidding."

El grinned. "I'm kidding. I actually won, but then I gave him one of my stakes anyway."

"That's an innovative approach to gambling, right there." He took another bite. "Remind me to visit your casino."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"Do you want it to be?" Peter winked at her.

"Hitting jackpot?" El wrinkled nose. "I don't think so."

Peter took a drink of milk and picked up his sandwich again. "So, what was this stake you so generously gave away? Wait, you didn't play strip poker with Neal?"

"No, honey, I did not play strip poker with Neal while you languished in a hospital bed," said El patiently, but she didn't explain further.

"Good." Peter could feel his eyes narrowing. Something was up. "So?"

El looked at him and bit her lip. "The stake was—it was a kiss from you."

Peter's stomach dropped. He put down his sandwich. "You're kidding," he said blankly. This had to be another joke.

But El shook her head. "I told him it was up to you whether it was redeemable, but—"

Peter's stomach dropped even further. "But?"

"But that he has my blessing." El stole a glance at Peter's face, and he didn't know what she saw there, but it was unnerving. This was his marriage they were talking around, the foundation of Peter's life, and if El thought there was something going on—

He put his plate and glass aside and angled toward her. "Hon?"

She took his hand and held tight. "He cares about you. He saved your life."

"That doesn't mean you have to—"

"I know. I wanted to." She searched his face. "I'm okay with it." A slight, wry smile curved the corner of her mouth. "Are you?"

"I'm not sure how to answer that," said Peter honestly. "A kiss?"

"Well, for starters."

"El!" Peter stared at her, wondering exactly what kind of crowd she'd been spending time with in San Francisco.

She gave him that supportive, upside-down smile he loved so much. "I'm just saying."

Peter felt a little dizzy. He took a deep breath. "Even if I—Even if I wanted to—to—"

"Be with?" prompted El.

"Even if I wanted to be with Neal—like that—" It was terrifying to hear himself saying it out loud, so he hurried on to the second part, the important part. "It's not that simple. I'm responsible to the Bureau."

"I know, honey," said El calmly. "But do you want to?"

Peter's face heated. "Half the time I just want to shake some sense into him," he said, and that wasn't quite true, but it was near enough. Neal was a continual source of exasperation, even if Peter sometimes suspected the exasperation was fifty percent unresolved—unresolvable—attraction. 

Apparently El could read between the lines. She smiled. "And the other half of the time?"

"I love you," said Peter, helplessly. 

"I know." El looked serene as the Madonna. "That's not what I'm asking."

Peter stared down at their joined hands, and he pictured Neal—bright, teasing, full of life. Standing too close. Openly watching him. Peter made himself confess. "The other half of the time, I—Okay, yeah, sometimes I think about him. What it would be like. When he's flirting with me, it's hard not to wonder. But it's just passing speculation. It doesn't mean anything. If things were different, sure." He glanced up quickly, checking he hadn't gone too far, and backtracked to be on the safe side. "I don't know. But—" He trailed off.

El squeezed his hand. "You sure you're not making it more complicated than it needs to be?"

Peter looked at her, really looked at her, and realized she wasn't threatened or hurt by any of this. She was fine. It was him who was freaking out. He made himself stop and really think about the situation, about what she was asking. "It makes itself complicated," he said. "I mean, we're talking Neal Caffrey, felon, con artist, forger, thief."

"Partner, friend," said El, adding to his list. "He didn't steal the kiss; I offered it to him." She knelt up and kissed Peter, gentle and loving. "He wants you. And from what you're saying, it sounds like maybe you want him."

"It's not that easy," said Peter, frowning. Had she been listening? Peter had a lot to lose.

But El had always cut through to the bone. To the heart of a problem. She had laser logic. "What's so hard about basic chemistry?"

Peter sent her a frustrated look. "It's not the chemistry, it's everything else. For instance, the fact that I'm married."

"I haven't forgotten, hon," she said calmly. "And I'm not trying to talk you into anything if you're not ready or you don't want it. I'm just saying that if you decide to. If you talk yourself into anything, you'll still be married. I'll still be here."

"You'd be willing to share." Peter couldn't get his head around that.

El nodded, her gaze serious. "With Neal, if that's what you both want, yes."

"Why?"

"Honestly? I think the two of you would be incredibly hot."

Peter groaned. Sometimes El was as exasperating as Neal. The thought warmed him a little, but he refused to examine that reaction.

El grinned, teasing, and then continued more soberly, "I care about Neal. I want him to belong with us. I think he could, I don't know, enrich our lives—even more than he already does."

"Like uranium," said Peter. "You want to weaponize our marriage."

El swatted him on the arm. "Not that there's anything wrong with the way things are," she added thoughtfully, "but I wonder if we could be more."

Peter watched her, the slight flush in her cheek, the carelessly tied back hair. His wife, ladies and gentlemen, the most beautiful woman in the world. "Do you—are you in love with him?"

El sent him a small mischievous grin. "I am, a little. I do have a pulse." She shifted to lean against Peter's side, snuggling in. "Mostly, he makes me feel like we're special, you and me. I love the way he cares about us." She looked up, her eyes laughing. "I think he might be magic."

"Oh, that's all I need—a con artist wizard." But Peter found himself smiling too, because she was right. There was something magical about Neal, and his respect for and deference to their marriage was one of his most charming traits.

"So you're not mad?"

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"That I told Neal he could kiss you," El elaborated.

Peter put his arm around her and pulled her even closer. "If I gather correctly, you didn't. You said you wouldn't stand in his way. And I'm not mad. Mostly, I feel incredibly lucky to have such an amazing wife."

"I'm feeling pretty lucky too," said El. "And you know, take it slow. Keep me apprised of any developments."

"Believe me, if anything happens, you'll be the first to know," Peter promised. He reached for his sandwich. "What else happened while I was out of the picture? Did you invite Mozzie to take up residence in the guest room?"

El laughed. "Can you imagine? I think he'd come out in hives. He'd probably booby-trap all the windows too." He felt her sigh, deep and contented. "I love you," she said. "Whatever happens."

"I'm going to hold you to that," said Peter. He was sitting on his couch with his wife. His dog was back on the mat, and everything was right with the world, even if El had temporarily taken leave of her senses. 

This was what happy ever after felt like.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some months later...

"Hey, Caffrey, you're starting to sound like a lawman," taunted Keller through the phone.

Neal hung up in disgust. Keller had arranged Peter's kidnapping and used the ensuing chaos to make his own escape. Which meant that even though they'd rescued Peter, it didn't feel like winning so much as playing into Keller's hands. 

All the same, it could have gone much, much worse. Neal slipped his phone into his pocket and turned back to watch, from the shadow of barely averted disaster, as Peter and Elizabeth were reunited. They looked perfect together, safe and complete. Lovestruck. Peter bent to kiss Elizabeth's mouth, and it hurt like a broken rib, a sharp ache in Neal's chest, how much he wanted that for himself, but he'd played his part in saving the day and that would have to be enough.

He looked around for Diana or Jones. He needed a ride back to the office so he could make his statement. Before he could locate either of them, Elizabeth caught his sleeve. "Neal, come for dinner tonight."

"All right." Neal hid his surprise. He'd have thought they'd want to be alone, but he couldn't turn down the offer. Keller had kidnapped Peter from inside a prison cell. The happy ending playing out here was a miracle; Neal wanted to bask in its beauty, however much he might wish for more.

By the time they pulled up outside the Burkes' house in Brooklyn, nagging indecision had given way to resolve. Neal followed Elizabeth into the kitchen.

She put her purse on the counter and fished a bottle out from the cupboard by the refrigerator. "Cabernet Sauvignon? And is takeout okay with you? I'm not really in the mood to cook." 

"Of course," said Neal. He took out his wallet and, from a secret pocket in the lining, extracted the slip of paper she'd given him months ago, its folds slightly worn. "Elizabeth?"

She turned, corkscrew in hand. "Mmm?"

"I was wondering—is this still valid?"

"Oh." She put down the corkscrew and came over, took the note from him and unfolded it. For a second, her hair curtained her face and Neal wondered if he'd mistaken a passing joke for a genuine gesture, but then she looked up, her expression open and warm. "I don't see an expiration date. You'll have to ask Peter." She gave him back the note, folding it into his hand with steady fingers. "Listen, I'm going to take Satchmo for a walk and pick up some Chinese food. Would you keep an eye on Peter for me and make sure he doesn't get shot, poisoned, kidnapped or framed for anything while I'm gone?"

Neal swallowed. "Consider me deputized."

Elizabeth regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then surprised him by reaching up to kiss his cheek, a quick soft press of lips and faint whiff of perfume. "Good luck."

While she rounded up Satchmo and told Peter where she was going, Neal poured himself a generous glass of wine and opened a beer for Peter. The front door closed, and Neal took the drinks into the living room, where Peter was standing, watching the news report on the events of the day.

Neal came to stand next to him, gave him the beer. "Keller's in the wind."

"We'll find him," said Peter. He sounded untroubled, but Neal couldn't reconcile himself to recent events so easily.

"If anything had happened today—"

Peter muted the television. "I know. It didn't." He was about to take a drink when he saw the note in Neal's hand. He lowered the bottle, untouched. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Elizabeth told you?" Neal's gut twisted. 

Peter nodded. His gaze was bright and searching, making Neal feel painfully exposed, his longing rising to the surface. This was Peter, the smartest, most reliable point in Neal's universe. Neal had made no secret of his feelings, and Peter had never let Neal down before, never recoiled from him. But asking for a kiss was a far cry from the light teasing that typified their partnership.

Neal took an undignified gulp of his wine and put down his glass. "I've been holding onto it for a while. I wasn't ready to find out if you'd honor it." The possibility had been too heady, the likelihood of refusal far too real. "But after today—" Neal handed him the note. "I want to redeem this."

Peter's expression was unreadable. "You're sure?"

Neal cast about for a suave response, a wry self-deprecatory gesture, perhaps, but all he could manage was a jerky nod. "I am."

"Okay." Peter put down the beer bottle. He took the wine glass from Neal and set that aside too. And then he moved in, first a warm clasp of the upper arm, and then his big hot hand on Neal's face, his thumb stroking the line of Neal's jaw, rasping slightly against the stubble, tilting his head up. Neal's eyes widened, halfway between startled and aroused. He grabbed Peter's shoulders as their mouths met, pulling him bodily closer. Jesus, this was everything—gentle, tender, searing. Neal kissed back in a daze, losing himself in the heat of it, in the reality of Peter's body hard up against his own, in a fantasy of this lasting forever. Just this. It wasn't so much to ask, surely.

But Peter was already pulling away, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark. "Now what?"

"What do you mean?" said Neal. He felt stupid, dumbstruck, his body clamoring for more. And Peter must have sensed that, it was Neal's lucky day, because Peter bent his head and kissed him again as if he couldn't help himself. One of his hands slid down Neal's back, a firm sensual pressure that made Neal groan and cant his hips forward.

Peter let him go and stepped back, breathing hard, and Neal looked away, desperately gathering his composure, salvaging the shredded remnants of his dignity. It hurt to put distance between them, but he was still fiercely glad to have had that kiss, the truth of it. He'd never forget. "Okay. So."

"You have a choice," said Peter, his voice deep and rough. He cleared his throat. "Neal, look at me."

Neal did. Peter was flushed, his hair ruffled, his clothes awry. He looked incredible.

"This can be a single isolated incident, nothing changes," Peter told him. "We carry on like always. Or, if you want, we can—slowly, carefully and off the record—follow it and find out where it takes us. It's your call."

The ground tilted beneath Neal's feet. "That's an option?"

Peter retrieved his beer, but he didn't drink. "When El first told me about the note, I—well, I thought it was a mistake. I was doing a pretty good job of repressing my reactions to you, and I guess I thought it would complicate an already complicated situation." His lips twitched into a wry smile, and Neal had to slide his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't grab him and kiss him again, right then. Peter continued, "But I have to tell you, knowing you've had that IOU all this time and haven't done anything with it—that has been driving me out of my mind." He raised a questioning eyebrow and pointed the beer bottle at Neal. "Did you do that on purpose?"

"No, I—" Neal held his gaze. This wasn't a con. None of this was a con. "I didn't know she'd tell you. Peter, I—"

Peter interrupted. "I guess what I'm saying is be careful what you ask for, you might get it."

It sounded like a joke, but Neal knew better. The fact that they were having this conversation at all proved Peter meant it, that Neal's passion was reciprocated. 

Neal stepped right up into Peter's space, put the bottle on the bookcase and settled his hand on Peter's waist. A subtle tremor passed through Peter's body, and the knowledge that he was the cause was intoxicating. "If I have a chance with you, I'm not walking away from that. I can handle complicated."

The tension around Peter's mouth softened, but his tone was still serious. "The only way this works is if we're honest with each other. No more misdirects or lies of omission."

Neal nodded without a second thought. For this, anything. "What about Elizabeth?"

Peter's eyebrows twitched up. "Elizabeth has asked that if we pursue this, we take it slow and negotiate any major developments with her."

"We take our time, we do it right," Neal translated. He'd always known Elizabeth was a kindred spirit. "She's okay with it?"

"She considers you family, Neal," said Peter, lowering his voice even further. "Close family. As do I."

Neal breathed a incredulous laugh. "You are one lucky bastard."

"Believe me, I know." Peter bent to kiss him again, and if the first time had unmoored Neal from everything he thought he knew, this swept him right out to sea. It was a long time before he came up for air. When he did, Peter leaned their foreheads together and murmured, "Seems like I just got even luckier."

Neal leaned into his arms, aware that they were bearing each other's weight, equal and perfectly balanced. "You and me both."


	4. Chapter 4

El bundled in the door with Satchmo, delicious smelling takeout and a spur-of-the moment chocolate cake. She'd given Peter and Neal as much time as she could, but she was dying to know how it was going so that hadn't really been very long. They weren't in her line of sight, but she heard Peter nearby saying, "Stop it, she's home."

The fact that he was talking to someone probably meant Neal was still there. A good sign. She put down her bags and unclipped Satchmo's leash, then took the food through without bothering about her coat.

Peter and Neal were just around the corner near the bookcase, and as El came into sight, Neal stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them, but it was obvious they'd been kissing. The connection between them was unmistakable—not to mention that Peter was flushed, his tie hanging loose and his shirt partially unbuttoned, and even Neal looked rumpled. His suit jacket and vest appeared to have fallen unheeded from the back of the armchair into a heap on the floor.

"Hey, hon," said Peter, sounding a little hoarse.

"Elizabeth." Neal took in her bags at a glance. "That smells great. I'll get plates." He vanished into the kitchen.

El couldn't contain her grin. She put the takeout on the coffee table next to a full glass of wine and went to hug Peter. "Yes?"

"Yeah." He held her tight for a moment. "Is that okay?"

"Definitely okay." El leaned back so she could see his face, the warmth in his gaze. "That's wonderful." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and his lips felt warm and used, thoroughly pre-kissed.

Behind her, there was the slight rattle of cutlery on flatware, and she turned to see Neal balancing three plates, a handful of forks and serving spoons, and another glass of wine. He put down everything except the wine, which he held out to her. "For you."

El accepted the drink, set it aside and hugged him. "I'm so pleased. I bought a cake." She looked from Peter to Neal, with their matching expressions of mild puzzlement, and laughed. "No pressure. If you want, it can just be a no-reason cake."

Neal relaxed into a pleased grin. "You bought us a cake."

"I felt like celebrating." El watched with amusement as Neal retrieved the wineglass from the coffee table, and Peter drifted toward him, apparently unaware he was doing so until he caught her watching and smiled self-consciously. "Relax, honey," she said. "Come on, let's eat before it gets cold."

They ate on the couch with Peter in the middle and some kind of property renovation show on the TV in which a crew in orange coveralls painted a bedroom an unlikely shade of purple and stenciled gold swans along the baseboard in the hallway. El wolfed down about twice as much as usual—she'd been too worried about Peter's kidnapping to eat earlier in the day—and the others followed her example. Their knees were pressed together, and Neal kept helping himself to food from Peter's plate until Peter caught his wrist and brought Neal's laden fork to his own mouth so he could eat a pilfered potsticker. They settled down a bit after that, but El was pretty sure that if she quizzed Peter about the TV show, he wouldn't have a clue.

She snickered to herself and settled back with her wine, basking in the glow of good food and vicarious romance. Peter hadn't said much about his feelings for Neal over the last few months, except for one evening when he'd had a few too many beers and fretted aloud for a good half hour about the kiss note and whether Neal was just going to sit on it forever. But El knew him better than she knew herself, she'd seen the signs and they'd all said this was what he wanted. Now it was happening, she intended to enjoy it.

Neal was charming and excellent company, he liked her and he'd look out for her interests. Even with Peter being the workaholic he was, El had confidence they could all get what they needed if they were careful to make those needs known.

She finished her wine slowly, and when Neal and Peter finally set their plates down, she muted the television and steeled herself. "Okay, guys, we need to talk about something." She squeezed Peter's arm. "And I'm sorry, hon, but it's something you're probably going to find awkward and embarrassing."

"What?" Peter looked endearingly confused.

El pried herself off the couch, took a piece of paper from the message pad by the phone and wrote him a note, much like the one she'd written for Neal all those months ago, but for sex this time. Sex with Neal. She stared at the paper for a moment, wondering if regret or jealousy were about to strike, but all she could find was excitement and the desire for love. For all of them to be happy. This may have started out of pity for Neal or generosity toward Peter, but the warmth kindled in her heart by this turn of events was all her own.

A shadow fell across the paper. Peter's shadow. El gave him the note.

Neal came up beside him and read over his shoulder. He mouthed, "Thank you," to El.

El shook her head with a smile. "I'm not trying to rush you guys into anything. Take all the time you need—or not. I just want us all to be prepared."

Neal was watching her curiously. "Have you done this before?"

"No, but I've had time to do some reading." El sat down at the table and mutely invited the others to join her. It would be easier to have this conversation in a slightly more formal setting than the couch. One where she could see both men's faces.

Peter placed the note on the table top as if he expected it to self-destruct or vanish into thin air and looked at Neal. "Have you done it before?"

"Not like this." Neal took a yellow rosebud from the centerpiece and touched its point with his fingertip. "Kate and I had threesomes a few times, but those were just sex." He met Peter's gaze. "Not like this."

"Men or women?" said Peter.

"Does it matter?" Neal's eyebrow lifted, but he shrugged. "One woman, two men."

"Speaking of sex—" El cleared her throat. It wasn't just Peter who found this kind of talk difficult, but it was necessary. She soldiered on. "Stuff with hands is fine, but at least for now, I want you guys to use condoms for everything else, including oral. Are you okay with that?"

"Yes," said Peter quickly. El thought he might've agreed to fly to the moon if it hastened the end of this conversation.

By contrast, Neal tilted his head thoughtfully. "Is there room to move on oral if I get tested?"

El considered. He had a point. Oral sex with condoms wasn't her favorite thing either. "Maybe we should all get tested for everything," she said. "Then we can talk about it?"

"Sounds good," said Neal. "Thank you."

"Anything else?" asked Peter stoutly, trying so hard to put a brave face on this that El wanted to hug him.

"Just that if you have sex in our bed, I'd like you to change the sheets afterward," said El. "I don't want to feel like I'm cleaning up after you."

"Of course," said Neal.

"El—" Peter looked shocked, but he could work that out with Neal—locations and boundaries. These were hers. Which reminded her—

"And Neal, this is between you and Peter too, but as far as I'm concerned, you're welcome here anytime except date nights." She smiled at him. "I just want you to know that."

Neal grinned at Peter. "Date night means no Neal."

"I should've known that'd come back to haunt me," said Peter, returning his smile. He shot a glance at El. "It's come up before."

"You are adorable!" said El, reaching for his hand. She sat back, relieved to have covered her main points so quickly. "How about you two? I know it's early days, but is there anything we need to talk about?"

Neal placed the rosebud on top of the new IOU and looked at Peter. "Who can I tell?"

"Who do you want to tell?" asked Peter. He eyed Neal narrowly, his head tipped slightly. "Mozzie."

"Not yet," said Neal. "But eventually. And June."

Peter shifted in his seat.

"They'll figure it out," explained Neal. "It's better if I tell them. And then we don't have to worry about hiding it when we're at my place."

"Okay." Peter picked up the rosebud and twirled it between his fingers. "I'm not hiding because I'm ashamed."

"I know." Neal seemed untroubled. "It has to be off the record. Don't worry, Mozzie and June are both masters of discretion."

"We all have to protect Peter's career and your position, Neal," said El. "Both of you have a lot to lose."

"We all do." Peter squeezed her hand.

"I know," said Neal again. He hesitated for a moment, then took a breath and looked at El. "What if I want to see other people?"

"That's between you and Peter," she said, hiding her surprise.

"Is there someone?" asked Peter, his face blank. 

Neal shook his head firmly. "No. And I want this. You. I really do. I just—" He leaned forward. "It has necessary limitations, and I don't want to rule out the possibility of someday having what you guys have."

Peter looked conflicted, but he was fundamentally a fair man. "Yeah, of course. If that's what you want."

Neal's expression softened. "We'll talk it through, okay? We don't have to decide now."

"If you're seeing other people, then the condoms are even more important," Elizabeth pointed out quietly.

Neal nodded. "Are you going to see other people?" he asked El.

"I—" El stopped, stumped. "I haven't thought about it." The conversation was starting to spin out of control, the world unfolding into a thousand possibilities, too many of them dangerously unknown. She held tight to Peter's hand. "Let's take this one step at a time."

"I have a question," said Peter. He pressed his lips together and looked at Neal. "What if it doesn't work out?"

"Peter—"

"No, I know," said Peter seriously. He dropped the rosebud and took Neal's hand. "I don't want to think about it either, but good intentions aren't always enough. A lot of relationships don't last. And if we—if we break up, or we don't even really get started for some reason, I don't want you going on the run or ending up back in prison."

"I won't run," said Neal. "I promise."

"That's not actually the worst of those two scenarios," Peter told him.

Neal took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Then I guess if we break up, we'd better make sure we can still work together."

A muscle flexed in Peter's jaw. "At least for the remainder of your sentence."

They stared at each other, the air fizzing with tension, until El shoved Peter on the shoulder. "Would you guys please hug?"

Peter stumbled to his feet, nearly knocking his chair to the floor in his haste, and hauled Neal into his arms. They clung to each other, wrapped in each other's arms. El watched Neal raise his hand to touch Peter's cheek as if Peter were some rare work of art he were only now permitted to touch, and Peter pressed his lips to Neal's temple and murmured, "Whatever happens, it's worth it for this."

El gave them another minute for the angst to subside and then said, "And on that note, cake. Celebratory cake. Because I have every faith we can make this work." She took a knife from the sideboard and lifted the lid of the cake box, revealing a dark, gooey chocolate cake. When she'd cut three healthy slices, she beckoned them back to their seats. "Come on, guys. Cake! And stop worrying, this is going to be fun—and also, honestly? I think it was kind of inevitable."


	5. Chapter 5

It was late. El had already gone upstairs to bed, leaving Peter and Neal to say goodnight in private. Peter walked Neal to the door and pulled him close one last time, tired but reluctant to let the evening end. What if the magic couldn't survive the light of day? What if Neal decided this was all a mistake? 

But Neal's hug was as firm as Peter's and as needy, his hands restless through Peter's shirt as if he wanted to slip underneath and really feel him. 

It was late, and El was upstairs waiting for him. "Hell of a day," said Peter quietly.

"Ending on a high note," said Neal with a smile. "So—I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow."

Peter cleared his throat. "Yeah. And on Friday—"

"On Friday, we date." A spark of mischief lit Neal's eyes. "Don't look so worried."

"I'm not," lied Peter. The prospect of the date filled him with ambivalence. On the one hand, it would likely involve fancy food and wine and God only knew what other tortures; on the other hand, Neal.

"Mmm-hmm," said Neal disbelievingly. "You know, you don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"Neither do you," said Peter pointedly.

"Is that what's bothering you? I'm fully and freely consenting, I promise." Neal's eyebrows shot up, and he kissed Peter wickedly, proving his point, then patted him on the ass. "Now, go upstairs and pay attention to your amazing wife. She's had a hell of a day too."

Peter opened the door to let him out. "I'll do that."

He watched until Neal turned the corner, then closed and locked the door, turned off the lights and went up to the bedroom, unsurprised to find El sitting up in bed, reading something on her laptop.

"Hey, hon," he said. "How are you doing?"

"I think I ate too much cake," she said, rubbing her belly. She winked at him. "How about you? Happy?"

Peter kicked off his shoes and hung up his tie. "If you'd told me when Lang locked me in that basement that this was how my day would end, I might have bent the bars like Superman to escape."

"It was a horrible day," said El, soberly, "but between the Bureau and Neal, I knew they'd bring you home. And hey, you pretty much rescued yourself. My hero."

"With Neal's help," said Peter, giving credit where credit was due. He'd been jangling with adrenaline in those final minutes of captivity; without Neal's clear-thinking, things could've gone very differently.

El smiled softly and closed her computer. "Well, you know Neal. Always there when you need him. I'm pretty sure he'd have taken the city apart, piece by piece, if he'd had to."

"Yeah." Peter finished undressing and sat on the bed beside her in just his shorts. He took her hand. "Nothing could stop me coming home to you. Nothing."

"I know." El's face was full of love. She put her laptop on the nightstand and pulled back the blankets in invitation, and he cuddled up beside her. She rested her hand on his chest. "So—you and Neal have a date on Friday, huh?"

"I guess so." 

"Nervous?" She sounded both teasing and sympathetic.

"Well, you know me and dating."

"Neal knows you and dating too," said El. "Just remember how good you are with people. You'll be fine."

"Yeah." Peter was pretty sure his way with people averaged into the negatives.

El must have heard his misgivings. She got up on one elbow and looked down at him, frowning slightly. "Hey. You don't try to change me, you're proud of my achievements, and when you can drag your attention from whatever case you're working and Neal and everything else that's going on, you have an incredible gift for making me feel special and loved. So don't sell yourself short, okay? I'm lucky to have you, and so is Neal."

"Thanks, hon." Peter felt himself relax, and the exhaustion of the rollercoaster day caught up with him at last. He fought it off, just a few minutes longer, to check in with her. "You're sure you're all right with this?"

El lay down again, her frown replaced with warmth and affection. "I started the ball rolling, remember. I just hope I'm not pushing you into anything."

Peter breathed a laugh. "You're really not. I don't push that easy, and neither does Neal."

"You know, I was right about you guys being hot together," said El slowly, "but it's more than that. It's—I'm not sure I can explain it. It's like I can feel your happiness here." She pressed her palm to her chest. "Like it's my own." She took Peter's hand and held it so he could feel the strong steady beat of her heart, so brave and generous. After a few seconds, she added wryly, "Plus, keeping you safe is a big responsibility, Mister. I'm glad I'm not alone in that anymore."

"You were never alone in that," said Peter.

"I know." El snuggled down beside him. "But I like it like this."

"Me too."

El yawned. "And if I start to feel weird about any of it or left out, I'll tell you, and you can spoil me rotten," she said sleepily.

"Count on it," said Peter, making it a promise. And then the tide of sleep was too much to hold back, and safe in her arms, he let it pull him under.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Thursday, Neal arrived at work elated and optimistic. The desire he'd been carrying like an embarrassing weight for years now was requited, transformed into a bright, alluring call to adventure. Of course there was the possibility that Peter would talk himself out of any further intimacy, but it was a slim chance. Peter rarely acted on impulse—he'd known what he was doing when he offered Neal the choice, and he must have known what Neal's answer would be. Perhaps most reassuringly of all, Elizabeth had bought them a celebratory cake. She'd never have done that unless she was sure Peter's decision would survive the night.

Of more practical concern was whether Peter could conceal the change in their relationship from the rest of the Bureau—his undercover skills were notoriously patchy—but Neal needn't have worried there either. Peter was professional from the moment he walked in the door. Almost disappointingly so. 

His front was so good, Neal couldn't resist teasing him. 

"Looking good today," he murmured as he passed Peter on the way into the conference room. "Nice penmanship," he observed, catching sight of Peter's half-done morning crossword. Peter barely reacted. But when Neal took advantage of a quiet moment to step in and discreetly brush some imaginary lint from Peter's shoulder, Peter caught his hand and removed it. 

"Please stop," said Peter, his gaze snapping with restrained emotion. "Save it for Friday night."

For a second, Neal thought he heard Peter's breath quicken, but it was his own. He was bare seconds away from grabbing Peter, shoving him against the wall and doing whatever it took to make him disheveled and breathless, the way he'd been last night. Which would be disastrous for both of them and would certainly spell the end of any romance.

Neal stepped back and slid his hands into his pockets. "Tomorrow."

There was plenty to occupy them in the meantime. Peter's kidnapping hadn't slowed down the rest of their caseload, and what with the half-dozen suspects on their radar and Mozzie's continuing quest for authentic fractal antenna parts, Neal didn't have much time to prepare for the date. It was probably best to keep it simple in any case. If he made the evening too quixotic or extravagant, it might scare Peter off, and that was the last thing Neal wanted.

On the other hand, it was their first date. Peter would be making an effort, more than usually willing to step outside his comfort zone, and Neal had every intention of taking advantage of that.

 

*

 

The moment Neal opened the door to let Peter in, he knew the evening was going to go well. Peter's eyes lit up when he saw him, the crinkles around his eyes deepened, and he gave Neal a warm, private smile. "Hey."

That was the way Peter looked at Elizabeth. It made Neal's throat ache. "Hey, come in."

Peter was still wearing his work suit, but he'd changed his tie for a rich, subtle brown one that matched his eyes. Neal shut the door and locked it, savoring a frisson of pleasure at being properly alone with him at last.

"Since when do you have a lock on your door?"

Neal put his hand on Peter's lapel. "I didn't think you'd appreciate any unscheduled interruptions."

"Well, in that case, thank you." Peter sounded genuinely grateful, and he pulled Neal close as if he'd been anticipating the evening as much as Neal had, but Neal held him off.

"Haven't you got something for me? From Elizabeth?"

Peter narrowed his eyes, but he dug in his pocket and held up a USB flashdrive. "What's on it? She made me promise not to look."

Neal just grinned. He took the drive, enjoying the electric awareness when their fingers brushed, and went to plug it into his computer. Half a dozen tracks came up, and he set the first one playing, a slow Latin beat.

Peter must have recognized it. He groaned.

"Come on," said Neal, beckoning him to the clear space by the French doors. "I've been dying to dance with you ever since I found out about those salsa lessons." Peter still looked reluctant, but Neal wasn't letting him off the hook. "If it helps, I'll let you lead."

"Okay, but don't expect too much," said Peter, hanging his suit jacket on a chair back. "I learned salsa, not whatever this is."

Neal hardly heard him. There was music, and then Peter's hand on his waist, hot through the fine cotton of his shirt. Their other hands joined, Peter's body close. Even if they'd been awkward and out of time, it would've been a fantasy come true, but they weren't. After a few shuffled steps on Peter's part, they moved smoothly together.

"New tie," said Neal. "I like it. Elizabeth's choice?"

Peter turned them neatly to avoid dancing into the wall. "Why do I suddenly feel outnumbered?" he said with a smile. 

Neal couldn't answer, distracted by the discovery that Peter had hips. He could really move. Neal tightened his grip on Peter's arm. Peter was holding him in a fairly formal dance frame, and Neal had to force himself to stick with that. He licked his lips. "Exactly how slow do you want to take this?"

"Whatever you're comfortable with," said Peter. "You set the pace."

Neal met his eye. "You still worried about the anklet?"

"I'm trying not to think about it," said Peter bluntly.

Neal frowned. "I earned an early release, Peter. I had signed papers from OPR."

"I'm aware." Peter stopped dancing. "I'm still your supervisor."

Neal bit back his impatience. Peter was speaking the truth, and his awareness of the legal lines was a big part of who he was. Neal was never going to change that—he'd have to distract him instead. "Well, it wouldn't be fun if we weren't breaking a few rules."

Peter rolled his eyes obligingly. "Don't let El hear you say that."

"Oh, her rules are sacrosanct. I even stocked up." Neal took over leading and turned them so Peter could see the packet on the nightstand.

"Good to know." Peter's hand tightened on Neal's waist, pulling him closer. "You know, I wanted to ask you—are you okay with how involved Elizabeth is? The rules, the music, the tie, everything."

"Are you kidding?" said Neal. "She's my own personal Make-A-Wish Foundation."

"Okay, good." Peter looked relieved. "I'm not the smartest guy at relationships, and now I have two of them." He touched Neal's neck, just above the collar. "You have to tell me if I mess up."

"Trust me," said Neal. "You won't." 

They started dancing again, slowly drifting toward the bed. The song changed to a faster beat, but neither of them sped their movements. Neal was acutely conscious of the thud of his own heartbeat, the expansion of his ribs as he inhaled. He couldn't tell if it was happiness or just that an ever-present longing was assuaged, but it was heady and he wanted more.

"Neal." Peter's voice was like gravel, his gaze intent, and after years of restraint and self-control, there was finally no reason to hold back. Neal raised his head and kissed him for the first time in days—far too long—his pulse quickening as Peter responded, opening to him and tugging him closer so they were pressed together from chest to hip. 

The bed was only a couple of feet away. Neal nudged Peter back, tugging his shirt out of his pants in the process, desperate to get his hands on him properly, to see him naked and aroused, to feel him everywhere and _be_ with him, but before he got more than a few buttons unfastened, Peter pulled away.

"Wait a minute. Wait." He scrubbed his face and looked up, flushed and obviously turned on. "Neal, much as I'd like to jump straight into bed with you—"

"Straight?" said Neal ironically. He was turned around by the abrupt halt, catching his breath, and it came out more prickly than he intended, but Peter's lips quirked anyway.

"Bad choice of words." He sighed and moved closer. "Listen, this is more than just a roll in the sheets. I think we should slow it down."

"Is this cold feet talking?" Neal searched his face.

"It's my admittedly limited experience of dating." Peter seemed awkward, but there was still that lurking affection, his Elizabeth look. That was real—and reassuring. "I'd like to spend some time and get to know each other properly."

Neal breathed a dry laugh. "Peter, you know me better than anyone."

"Not like this," said Peter in the low voice that made Neal's knees weak. "Not with your guard down. Just wait a little longer, that's all I'm saying."

Neal wanted to protest, to point out he'd already been waiting years, but if Peter wasn't ready, Neal wasn't going to pressure him. "If that's what you want."

"We're good?"

"Of course." Neal kissed him lightly, lingering, trying to settle in and enjoy the anticipation of more to come. It almost worked. "How do you feel about steak?"


	7. Chapter 7

_My husband is on a date with his male CI._ The words were so present on El's tongue, she felt like she was talking around them. Luckily, Yvonne and Sandy their intern were both in a chatty mood, so El could sit back in the wine bar and listen to them gossip about clients and the cute new caterer they'd used for the Richardson wedding.

"He likes you," said Yvonne, teasing El. "He was heartbroken when I told him you're happily married."

"He's just a baby," said El. The caterer was only a few years younger than her, but he was fresh-faced and straightforward: nowhere near as smart as Peter nor as brilliant as Neal. Not that Neal was her type, exactly, but she could certainly see the appeal.

"I'll console him," offered Sandy, leaning forward.

It took El a second to catch up with the conversation. "Perfect! You're a baby too," she teased. "Which probably makes me an old lady."

"Not old—settled," said Yvonne. "We should all be so lucky."

 _My husband is on a date._ El bit back the words and looked around for a waiter to refill their glasses. "What about you?" she asked Yvonne. "You've been with Mark for nearly a year now. That's pretty settled. How's his new job?"

"He's adjusting," said Yvonne. "He's stopped falling asleep on the couch while we're watching TV, but it was a big promotion and it's taking a lot out of him, if you know what I mean."

Sandy looked questioning.

"He hasn't been in the mood for weeks," Yvonne explained. She shrugged philosophically. 

_My husband might well be having gay sex with Neal right this minute._ El ignored the twist in her belly. "Change can be unsettling," she told Yvonne. "Mark will get used to it, get his stamina back up." She said it with a wink, and Yvonne grinned.

"You are my favorite person, El," she said. "The eternal optimist. You always know what you want, and you go out and get it."

"Like Genghis Khan," said El drily. The wine was going to her head. _Peter is on a date._ She desperately wanted to blurt it out, ask them if they thought it was a mistake. It didn't feel like a mistake. And they didn't know Neal—just what she'd said about him, his past, various incidents. That wasn't a fair way to form an opinion.

Would Yvonne think it was scandalous? Immoral? Dangerous? Would she understand? They spent half their lives organizing weddings and anniversary parties for couples in love. For that matter, had any of those couples been through this themselves? It was automatic to assume everyone else was normal, whatever that meant, but maybe Mrs. Richardson had a boyfriend as well as a husband, or old Mr. and Mrs. Weisz, who'd celebrated their silver anniversary in the Winter Garden, shared a lover. El wondered for the first time what her parents would say if she told them. Not that she wanted to tell them, but— Damn, when she'd discussed the rules with Peter and Neal, she should've asked who she could tell. She should have known it would be impossible to keep it to herself.

"You okay there, Genghis?" said Sandy. 

"Tired." El clenched her jaw to keep her secret safe, then faked a yawn. She'd arranged the evening out so she wouldn't spend the night drifting around the house waiting for Peter; she didn't want to be the kind of wife who hovered. But this wasn't the answer. She loved her friends, but she needed to be alone. "I'm sorry, I think I'm going to have to call it a night."

"You're as bad as Mark," said Yvonne fondly.

El grinned. "Nope. I still put out." She evaded Yvonne's swat and paid the tab, and they said goodbye on the sidewalk outside, hugs and "See you Monday."

El headed for the nearest subway station, but when she reached the top of the steps, she stopped. It was barely eight-thirty. A businessman grumbled as he side-stepped her, and she moved out of the stream of people and called Moz.

"Mrs. Suit? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said El. "Nothing's wrong. I just—has Neal spoken to you?"

"About—?" Mozzie went straight onto high alert. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." El thought fast. "Peter and Neal are—working late, and I just wondered if you knew anything about the case." The hesitation was deliberate, but Mozzie didn't seem to notice. If Neal had told him, he'd have picked up on it, she thought.

"They're always working late," was all he said, in his usual tone of disapproval. "There's always a case, another enterprising soul to be quashed, deadened and taken out of circulation. What are you really worried about, El?"

El bit her lip and cast around for a plausible reason to be concerned. "Has there been any word on Keller?"

"As far as my sources can tell, he's somewhere in the Mediterranean." Mozzie sounded businesslike now, taking her concerns seriously. El felt a pang of guilt for misleading him, but then, Keller was still out there. He'd kidnapped Peter by proxy once, and he could do it again. But Mozzie was firmly reassuring, adding, "Don't worry, he has more pressing concerns than Peter."

"The Russians." El had gleaned that much, however hard Peter tried to protect her from the developments of the case. "Thanks, Moz. That's good to know."

"Is there a reason you couldn't just ask the Suit?" 

"Peter doesn't want me to worry, so I never know if he's minimizing the danger. Besides, it's always good to check your information with reliable outside sources, right?" El looked across the street at the stores and bars. There was a small, nondescript cybercafé next to the deli on the corner. "Listen, I've got to go. I'll see you soon, okay?"

She went across to the cybercafé. Most of the people inside were in their twenties, tourists checking their email and kids playing computer games. El paid cash for a half hour, chose a computer near the back where no one could read over her shoulder, and went to one of the polyamory forums she'd found when she was trying to figure out how these kinds of relationships might work. She'd never posted there, but the secret was still lined up on her tongue, and she was anonymous here, not even an IP address to trace back to her. She wasn't going to identify herself or Peter's profession, wasn't going to say anything illegal, so there was no reason for law enforcement to pull camera footage and try to track her down. She could talk freely, and no one would know it was her.

She registered on the forum using the first name that came to mind—Audrey, the protagonist in the novel she'd just finished—and went to the "Welcome" thread, where she stared at the Quick Reply field. Slowly, she began to type.

_I'm new to this. I've been married a long time, and we've always been monogamous, but my husband is in love with someone else. He hasn't said that, but I know. It's love. They're on their first date tonight. I'm happy for them, and full of other emotions I can't name or pin down. Mostly, I'm really happy. And I needed to tell someone. Thank you for listening._

She read it through half a dozen times, fiddling with the punctuation and checking she hadn't accidentally said anything that could identify her or Peter—and by extension, Neal—and then she held her breath and clicked "Post Reply."

The page reloaded, and there were her words for the world to see. In the post directly above them, the sig file read:

_A truly rich life contains love and art in abundance. -- fortune cookie_

El smiled to herself, repeating the words so she'd remember them to tell Peter. She refreshed the page a couple of times to see if anyone would respond to her posting, but there was only a reply to someone else, further upthread, and El was too restless to wait. She logged off, gathered her things, gave in to the temptation to surreptitiously wipe her prints from the keyboard with a tissue, and left.

 

*

 

She was at home on the couch, browsing the internet and watching The Colbert Report, when Peter came in the door. "Hi, hon."

"You decided not to stay over," she said. She'd half-expected a phone call to say he was going to spend the night at Neal's. She closed her laptop and put it aside.

"Yeah, we didn't—" Peter sat down next to her and put his arm around her, drawing her close. "We're taking it slow."

"Oh. Well, good." El was obscurely disappointed, but that was silly. It wasn't her relationship; it was theirs. "Whatever works for you guys."

"I love you." 

"I know, hon." El hugged his arm to her chest. "So tell me—how did it go? Did you dance? Was it romantic?"

"We danced, we talked, we ate." Peter looked vaguely embarrassed.

El turned so she could see him better. "You made out," she said, filling in the blanks. When he didn't reply, she looked at him properly. "Please tell me you kissed him."

"Of course." Peter closed his eyes. 

"But—" El touched his face. "Is it because he's a he?"

Peter shook his head. "It's not that. I just—I haven't been with anyone but you in as long as I can remember. I never wanted anyone else until Neal, and I spent so long holding back with him—for some very good reasons, I might add—it's going to take some time to change gears."

"You feel like you haven't earned it—" El sent him a soft smile. "—but you have. Really."

"I think I'm falling in love with him." It sounded like a confession.

El hid a smile. As far as she was concerned, Peter and Neal had been madly in love for months if not years, but upon reflection, it wasn't really a surprise Peter hadn't admitted it to himself. He was such a good man, respectable through and through, the thought had probably never crossed his mind before. She moved to sit on his lap so she could hug him properly. "Oh, honey. Did you tell him?"

Peter's eyes widened, whether at her easy acceptance or at the notion of declaring himself to Neal, she couldn't tell, but he just said, "It's too soon. We talked, though. His past. My past. You."

El grinned. "Your first date, and you talked about your wife?"

"I told you I was bad at this." But Peter grinned too, accepting the teasing in good humor. "It was—strangely new. All this time we've worked together, it's like we never really talked."

El hoped that meant the date really had been a conversation and not an interrogation. Peter was an FBI agent, after all. But Neal could take care of himself, he'd known what he was getting into, and it was probably best if she left them to it. "I spent the evening dying to tell someone. I even called Moz, but I don't think Neal's told him yet."

"You didn't spill the beans yourself?" 

"No, I thought he should hear it from Neal." El made a face and told Peter about the cybercafé and Audrey the alias. "I was careful."

"Have you had any replies?"

"We have some anonymous well-wishers. Nothing earth-shattering." El snuggled up against him for a few minutes, appreciating his warmth and solidity, how good it felt. Her eyes drifted shut.

"Come on," he said, nudging her gently. "Come to bed."

 

*

 

The next morning, a delivery woman brought her a bouquet of orchids and two tickets to the symphony. "From Neal," she told Peter, as she placed the flowers on the table. "They're for me."

"Shouldn't he be sending me gifts?" asked Peter. "He's my, uh, boyfriend."

"Did you send him anything? No? Well, then." El poured herself a second cup of coffee. In the light of day, with Peter reading his way through the Times and a vase of beautiful flowers on her dining table, her jumbled restlessness of the night before was easily dispelled, and Peter's stumbling description of Neal made her heart clench with secret pleasure. "Oh, and honey? We're going to the symphony on Wednesday, so don't schedule any all-nighters in the van, okay? Date night."

"The symphony?" Peter sighed. 

El grinned. "Blame your boyfriend. He bought us tickets."


	8. Chapter 8

"Yes, and they're beautiful," said El, coming back into the room. "Thank you." Peter looked up from the editorial in the Times, but she had her phone pressed to her ear; she wasn't talking to him. She listened a moment and then laughed.

Peter put down the paper. "Is that Neal?" He gestured for the phone.

El eyed him teasingly and said, "Peter wants a word. Okay, you too."

The hand piece was warm from her grip. Peter held it tight, feeling like a nervous teenager. "Hey."

"Hey, good morning." Neal's voice right in his ear. "What's up?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to say hi."

"Well, hi." He sounded amused.

Peter smiled too, but he tried to inject a note of mock severity into his tone. "What are you doing, sending Elizabeth tickets to the symphony?"

"Expressing my appreciation," said Neal promptly. "For what it's worth, I have a present for you too, when you're ready to unwrap it." The innuendo was unmistakable.

"I look forward to it." Peter cleared his throat, knowing his cheeks were flushed and El was openly listening in. "I'm getting there. In the meantime, what are you doing this afternoon?" Despite hours of intimate conversation the night before, they hadn't discussed the weekend or arranged their next date, mostly because they'd spent the last fifteen minutes making out on the couch and then Peter had bolted before he got swept away and took Neal to bed. He wasn't ready. It was still too soon. "Do you have plans?"

"Nothing that can't wait, but don't you and Elizabeth want to—"

"Hold on a minute." Peter covered the mouthpiece. "Hon, did you mean it when you said Neal was welcome here any time except date night?"

El rolled her eyes. "Of course I meant it. But what about Satchmo?"

Peter stopped. When they weren't working Saturdays, they always took Satchmo out in the afternoon to make up for keeping him cooped up all week. It was one of Peter's favorite times of the week, and besides, it was a beautiful day. Peter didn't especially want to spend it shut indoors either. "Dog park?"

"You really want to introduce Neal to the labradoodle mafia?" asked El. "How about a picnic?"

Peter figured they could find somewhere quiet and discreet. He spoke into the phone. "Picnic with Elizabeth and Satchmo. How does that sound?"

"Perfect, but—" Neal hesitated. "You sure I won't be intruding?"

"We're sure." Peter lowered his voice. "I want to see you."

Neal's inhalation was audible. "I'll be there."

 

*

 

By the time they reached the park, a safe distance from Peter and Elizabeth's usual stomping grounds, the sun had slipped behind a bank of cloud and there was a chill in the air. It wasn't ideal picnic weather, but on the other hand, that meant fewer people around. There were only a couple of cars in the parking lot, and one of them looked like it might be abandoned. Peter suppressed the automatic urge to note down the plate and went to get stuff out of his own trunk instead, while El put Satchmo on his leash. 

Neal was wearing a black turtleneck that reminded Peter of the early days of their partnership, and his leather jacket, and he was bare-headed. He crouched down to make a fuss of Satchmo while El came to Peter's side to help him with the picnic paraphernalia—thermoses, cups, a blanket, a small radio, doggy treats and a water bowl. Years of negotiations had honed their equipment to a finely balanced compromise between comfort and efficiency, though on this occasion, Peter had made more of an effort than usual with the food.

Neal stood up and dusted his hands on his thighs. He spotted the cluster of fat bags emblazoned with the deli logo and told El, "Oh, good call."

"I can't take the credit," she said, tilting her head toward Peter.

Neal looked surprised. "Really?"

Peter tried and failed to be offended. The deli had been too fancy for his taste, not to mention criminally overpriced. "I checked your tracking data for your favorite eating establishments," he admitted.

Neal's surprise segued into a grin. "I don't know if I should find that endearing or creepy." Peter handed him a big bag of pastries, and he peered inside. "Endearing," he concluded. "Definitely endearing."

Neal relieved El of her armful of picnic things, and they walked along the track for ten minutes or so, dawdling when Satchmo insisted on stopping to sniff around and chatting about nothing till they came to a stream bank which El declared the perfect spot. 

Once they were settled, Peter looked across the spread at Neal. "Would prefer me not to look at your GPS when it's not work-related?"

"It's fine, Peter," said Neal around a mouthful of pastrami on rye. He swallowed and licked his fingers. "We are who we are."

"You say that, but that doesn't mean we can't try to change," Peter told him. "For instance, I'd prefer you try not to steal anything."

El looked up from her chicken sandwich. "Honey."

"It's fine," repeated Neal firmly, still addressing Peter, but his expression was wry. 

"Sorry," said Peter, wanting to smooth things over. "Neal, I'm sorry. That was—"

Satchmo chose that moment to provide a welcome distraction by dropping his favorite ball at El's feet. El finished her sandwich and let him off leash so she could throw it for him.

Peter sat with his back against a tree trunk and watched, trying not to worry. He and El were so open with each other, even when Peter crossed a line—say, by checking her eBay bids—he could be confident he wouldn't trip over any real secrets. And he was an FBI agent; he was used to working with all the information he had to hand. But Neal was complicated, and Peter had no doubt there were areas of his life he'd prefer to keep private—or at least to choose for himself when and where to open them up to scrutiny. As Neal's supervisor, Peter's instinct was to learn as much as possible, to keep close tabs on him and make sure he didn't get into any trouble. As his boyfriend, he was going to need to pull back, to learn to respect Neal's boundaries—and his choices. If Neal was dead set on pulling a heist or running a scam, and if that wrongdoing didn't cross Peter's desk, perhaps the most Peter could hope for was plausible deniability and that Neal wouldn't get caught. 

As much as Peter liked to pretend Neal was reformed, he knew in his bones that Neal would never settle for living an ordinary life in the suburbs like Peter and El's. 

"You worry too much," said Neal, breaking in on Peter's thoughts. Peter looked down to see him watching him with a slight frown.

Peter swallowed his justifications and concerns. "Yeah." 

Neal was right. This was a perfect day. There was nothing to steal here, no trouble for them to get into. Peter should enjoy the moment. And there was plenty to enjoy: the sun was making a valiant effort to escape its cloudy captors, the food was good, El was laughing as she played with Satchmo, dodging side to side to keep the dog on his toes, and Neal was lying on his side on the picnic blanket, head propped on his hand, body lean and long, eyes far bluer than the fall sky. He was still studying Peter, gauging his mood, and he seemed subdued.

"Hey," said Peter. He planted one hand next to the thermos and leaned across the clutter of picnic things to kiss Neal, gentle and insistent. He meant it as a gesture, a reconnection, but Neal opened to him, deepening the kiss despite Peter's precarious position, and when Peter finally pulled back—of necessity, because his arm was cramping—they were both breathless.

Neal licked his lips. "You're killing me, here," he said softly.

The awkwardness had passed. When Peter smiled at him, he returned the look with open affection. Peter pushed the clutter aside and beckoned him closer, and somehow they ended up with Neal sitting against the tree, and Peter lying half-on, half-off the blanket, with his head in Neal's lap. They held hands and—perhaps inevitably for them—began idly theorizing about one of their current cases.

El flopped down not long after and beamed at them. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and Satchmo dropped his ball by Peter's knee, hoping to continue the game. Peter ignored him easily, but Neal started talking to Satchmo and he released Peter's hand. His thighs flexed under Peter's neck as he leaned forward to stroke Satchmo's ears, and Peter sat up so Neal could take his turn playing with the dog. 

El looked across at Peter and winked, amused and obviously content, and Peter felt himself relax a little more, taking his cue from her. Her happiness was reliable proof that, right now, there was nothing he needed to worry about. Everything was right with the world.


	9. Chapter 9

For a mature dog, Satchmo seemed to be tireless. Neal threw the ball for the sixth or seventh time and watched him bound across the grass after it. The stream was babbling gently nearby, the air was busy with insects and a slight, cool breeze, and Neal's thigh was still warm from where Peter had rested his head, putting him in two minds—part of him reveling in the good food, enjoyable company and the welcome change of scenery, the other part consumed with the need to tear Peter's clothes off. 

This was hardly the time. Elizabeth had accepted Neal's presence with good grace, and Neal didn't want to risk doing anything to jeopardize that. He still wasn't sure where he fit into the overall picture, and although Elizabeth was obviously okay with Peter's dating him, Neal wasn't sure what was in it for her. The uncertainty made him all the more determined not to do anything that would make her regret it.

But god, even when Peter was preoccupied with potential disaster, he was six feet two of pure temptation. He was different away from work and the office, more relaxed and quicker to smile, and he wasn't shy about touching Neal or kissing him. He claimed he wasn't ready to take things further, and Neal was doing his damnedest not to push—but Peter didn't kiss like a man who wasn't ready. His eyes, his lips, his body all said yes. But something was holding him back, and the list of possible reasons was a long one: their working relationship, Neal's criminal past, internalized taboos around gay sex, Elizabeth, a lack of trust. Well, it probably wasn't Elizabeth, at least, given she'd literally written Peter a permission slip, and Neal hoped it wasn't a matter of trust. He might not be the most law-abiding person on the planet, but he had never willingly let Peter down. Never. And he wasn't going to start now. Peter should know that.

As for the other likely obstacles, all Neal could really do was wait for Peter to work his way through them. It was frustrating, but luckily, Neal was well practiced at waiting. 

Satchmo ran up and dropped the now slobbery ball at Neal's feet, but his play-with-me dance had lost its bounce, and he didn't resist when Neal patted him and took him back to the picnic blanket. "I think we've finally worn him out."

"That's quite an achievement." Peter smiled and poured water into a plastic dog bowl, and Satchmo lapped it up noisily before sprawling near Elizabeth and resting his head on his paws.

Neal helped himself to a cup of coffee and a Danish.

"To answer your question, hon, no," said Elizabeth. "When it comes to gossip this juicy, Moz is the only master of discretion I can be sure of."

"Not Yvonne?" said Peter.

"Mark's mother is a subeditor at the Post." Elizabeth shrugged slightly. "Yvonne wouldn't pass it on maliciously, but—I don't know. It's a risk. My friends aren't professional keepers of secrets like you and Neal."

Peter turned to Neal. "El was just saying—"

"—I need someone I can tell about you and Peter," Elizabeth finished. "Last night I anonymously told an internet forum for polyamorous people, but I need someone I can talk to in person."

"Is everything all right?" In Neal's experience, needing to talk meant something was wrong.

She smiled at him. "It's fine. It's great. But I'm a talker. That's how I process change. I need a sounding board."

"Your sister," said Peter.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "She'd tell Mom. You know she would. And Mom would tell Dad."

"Would it help if I broke the news to Moz?" said Neal. It was the obvious solution.

Elizabeth's expression lightened. "Would you? I don't want to rush you into anything."

"Leave it to me." Neal kept his demeanor confident. He had no idea how Mozzie would take the news, but he'd come around eventually, and if Elizabeth needed a listening ear she could trust, it was the least Neal could do.

 

*

 

They got back to the Burkes' house just after four, and Elizabeth suggested they leave Satchmo and all go to an early movie.

"A movie?" said Peter.

Elizabeth waggled her eyebrows at him. "Popcorn, romance, sitting in the dark holding hands—"

"I'm sold," said Neal, warm with gratitude toward her. Not only was she good company in her own right, but she seemed to have slid into event managing his and Peter's second date in a way that kept Peter from freezing up or dwelling on the obstacles. Neal found himself settling back and going with the flow too.

"So am I," said Peter, though his eyes flicked briefly toward the television. Neal guessed there was a game on.

Either Elizabeth knew the sports schedule or she'd reached the same conclusion. "Aw, it's okay, honey," she said with mock sympathy. "You can watch the game later."

Peter looked caught out, and Neal laughed. "Busted."

"I'd rather spend time with you," said Peter gallantly, his color rising. He kissed Elizabeth and then came over and pressed his warm, dry lips to Neal's. "Much rather," he murmured, his hand on the back of Neal's neck. He smelled fresh and clean. 

Neal suppressed a shiver.

They went to the movies. The theater was half-empty, they sat in the back row with Peter in the middle, and Neal could barely see the screen or hear the dialogue because Peter's fingers were laced with his, his thumb stroking down Neal's curled index finger and up again, gently rubbing the sensitive crease between Neal's finger and thumb. The darkness with its implied privacy only amplified the sensation, and pretty soon Neal was embarrassingly turned on. He had to clench his jaw not to do something rash. 

At first it was exquisite torture, but as the minutes passed it slowly became easier until he was almost inured to it, so—because he was a glutton for punishment—he moved Peter's hand to his thigh and pressed it there. 

For a long moment, Peter gripped Neal's thigh, his pulse fast under Neal's fingers, and Neal bit his lip and focused on keeping his breathing quiet and even. Then Peter tugged his hand free and draped his arm along the back of the seat, across Neal's shoulders. He drew Neal against his side, and they watched the rest of the movie like that, almost hugging, with the arm of the seat digging into Neal's side and him not caring at all.

After the movie, they went out to dinner at a small bistro not far from Peter and Elizabeth's house. They chatted lightly, making each other laugh and putting on a show of being just friends. It was cozy and enjoyable, but Neal was acutely conscious of who might be watching—Peter and Elizabeth's neighbors, their friends, even the wait staff—so he kept his hands strictly to himself. That was its own kind of torture. 

So by the time they'd finished their meal and Peter asked Neal if he wanted to stay over, offering him the guest room, Neal felt vaguely feverish. He knew he couldn't make it through the night without coming, either voluntarily or involuntarily, and he refused to contemplate furtively masturbating in the Burkes' guest room or their bathroom. He would go home and take care of himself in private, like an adult. 

Peter looked disappointed, but he accepted Neal's decision to go home. "Can I see you tomorrow? Tomorrow night?"

"Yeah." Neal gave him a slow, lingering kiss, memorizing every detail for later. "If that's okay with Elizabeth."

"Of course," she said. "It's still new, and you want to spend lots of time together. You guys can stop walking on eggshells, you know. If something starts to bother me, I will tell you."

"I'll come to your place," Peter told Neal. His hand was still on Neal's hip.

Neal nodded and bent to kiss Elizabeth's cheek. She smelled like Peter, like picnics, fresh and outdoorsy. "Thank you. It was a perfect day."

"I had fun too." She smiled and squeezed his arm. "Good night, Neal."

 

*

 

Mozzie was sitting on the couch, drinking wine and watching a Star Trek rerun when Neal arrived home. He glanced up. "Why is there a lock on your door?"

"Privacy." Neal debated whether to kick Moz out in the interests of finally getting some alone time and indulging himself or whether to tell Mozzie about Peter now and get it over with. He supposed he should take advantage of the opportunity in front of him and get the awkward conversation out of the way. He got a glass, collapsed on the couch next to Mozzie and poured himself the last couple of inches of wine. "How long have you been here?"

"Since about seven. I've made important progress on the antenna and I wanted to tell you, but your phone was off." Mozzie raised his glass and studied the rich glow of the wine. He seemed more or less sober, despite apparently having drunk the best part of a bottle solo. "Where were you?"

"At the movies." Neal had forgotten he'd switched his phone to silent. He took it out now and turned the buzzer back on, steeling himself. "With Peter and Elizabeth. Peter and I are dating."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "Wait, you're sleeping with the Suit?!" He sounded incredulous.

Neal winced at his wording. "Not exactly."

Mozzie switched off the TV and turned to him, eyebrows climbing his forehead.

"Not yet," clarified Neal reluctantly. "We're dating. Hence the lock on my door. Elizabeth knows, she approves, she'd like to confide in you about it actually. No one else can know."

"Neal, that's—"

"It's what I want," interrupted Neal firmly, hoping to head Mozzie's qualms off at the pass. "It's what I've wanted for months." Years, if he were totally honest, but he didn't particularly want to have that discussion. "I'm happy, Moz."

"A con and a federal agent." Mozzie frowned. "It's a shameless abuse of institutional power."

Neal rolled his eyes. "It's Peter. We're partners. And for what it's worth, he's even more worried about that side of things than you are."

"Well, he should be." But Mozzie sounded mollified. He took a drink. "El knows?"

"And approves."

"So that's why she called me last night." Mozzie held up his finger, visibly making the connection. "She asked if you'd spoken to me. I thought she meant about Keller."

"Why would you think that?" It was Neal's turn to frown.

"She distracted me," said Mozzie. "And it worked. You know, she's a natural deceptress."

Neal wasn't reassured. "What did you tell her?"

"The truth. Our best intel says Keller's lying low in the Mediterranean, hiding from the Russians. She has nothing to worry about."

"You—" Neal shook his head. "Start at the beginning." He made Mozzie recount the entire phone call and was left wondering if Elizabeth had been bluffing or if she really were still worried about Keller. Could that have anything to do with her willingness for Neal and Peter to date, and if so, why? And how would she—and Peter—react, if they found out the whole truth about Neal and Keller's history. Neal leaned his head back on the couch and closed his eyes tiredly. It had been a long day, and he'd spent most of it physically on edge. He wasn't thinking clearly. There were some things the Burkes never needed to know.

"Anyway, none of this is what I came to tell you," Mozzie was saying, so Neal dutifully listened to Mozzie's latest news about the fractal antenna and then maneuvered him out the door.

Alone at last. But he'd lost momentum, the mood ruined by Mozzie and thoughts of Keller and fractals and, by extension, Adler. So instead of jerking off, as Neal had planned, he took his laptop to bed and scoured the internet for Elizabeth's post. He found several polyamory forums, but across them, only a handful of posts dated the night before, and of those, few were introductions. Audrey seemed a more probable pseudonym than cpl_seeking_gf or fishyboy1963. Neal wondered if Elizabeth had named herself for Hepburn.

Reading Audrey's post confirmed his suspicion that Audrey was Elizabeth. It fit perfectly. He read it through again: _My husband is in love with someone else. He hasn't said that, but I know. It's love._

Love. It shouldn't be a surprise—Peter and Elizabeth would never have started down this path if Peter's feelings hadn't been serious, and it was there in Peter's eyes when he looked at Neal these days, deep and true. But to see it set out in black and white, to know that Elizabeth accepted it even if Peter hadn't completely come to terms with it yet—that was like being given a precious gift and charged with a solemn responsibility all at once. Neal reached for his phone, wanting to call, to hear Peter's voice like a talisman, but it was late. He should wait till morning. 

For now, he called his own voicemail and sifted through his few saved messages until he found an old one from Peter—work-related and obsolete, but still in Peter's warm, steadying tones. It was enough.

Neal read Audrey's post one more time: _I'm happy for them, and full of other emotions I can't name or pin down. Mostly, I'm really happy._

That made Neal smile. Elizabeth really was incredible. He should send more flowers.

There were a dozen responses to the post, most brief and encouraging, a few sharing similar experiences. Neal closed his computer, put it aside and turned out the light. He half expected to have trouble sleeping, that suppressed desire would finally catch up with him, but sleep hit him like a runaway train almost before he'd drawn his arm back under the covers.


	10. Chapter 10

El woke late on Sunday morning to Peter ghosting kisses across the back of her neck. She stretched luxuriously against his body and turned in his arms, enjoying the familiar arousal, her Peter. Always hers. His eyes were closed as she kissed him, and for a moment she wondered if he were thinking of Neal, if she were a stand-in, if it would ever be just the two of them again, but then he blinked them open, and she knew that as long as he loved her, as long as he looked at her with such warm desire, it didn't matter.

"'Morning," she said, smiling against his lips. She smoothed down over his ribs and belly, reaching for his erection.

"Mmm, good morning." The words almost dissolved into a groan, but he recovered his composure. "Sleep well?"

"I did." El's head fell back onto the pillow as Peter nuzzled her throat. "Very well. Come here." She urged him on top of her, into her, and they made love with the ease of long practice and mutual pleasure. 

El found herself paying attention to see if anything had changed, if Peter were touching her differently. She thought he was. It might be her imagination, but he seemed more focused than usual, making more of an effort to connect, to be specifically with her. After eleven years, it was only natural that sex was sometimes ordinary and habitual. They enjoyed each other, and Peter always made sure Elizabeth was satisfied, but they weren't absorbed in each other the way they had been in the beginning—but this was fresh and wonderful, every caress deliberate. El felt cherished.

She wound her legs around his hips and watched his face as they moved together. There were a few occasional flickers of distraction—of Neal, she thought, surely that was inevitable—but mostly he was right here with her. 

"Hey, hon," he murmured, raising his eyebrows slightly, as if he'd noticed her assessing them, overanalyzing. She said it back with a smile and let herself sink into the moment, into the glorious physicality of their bodies together and the sweet buildup of tension that made her tense and tremble. She flung her hands up to grab the headboard and rocked to meet him, inching closer and closer to breaking point, relishing every moment. 

Peter's lips were parted, his breath ragged and heavy. He was close. The pressure of his elbows made twin dips in the mattress on either side of her head, and when El raised up to kiss him, she felt a bright jolt of sensation and love—and something like generosity. She stopped moving.

"Okay?" said Peter, breathlessly.

"Yeah, I'm just gonna turn over, okay?" She eased off him and rolled over, kneeling and supporting herself on her elbows so he could take her from behind. It wasn't an unusual position for them, but in light of Neal and the prospect of Peter sleeping with him, it took on new significance. When he swore softly, she knew he knew it too.

"Jesus, El." Peter slid back inside her and paused, and El looked over her shoulder at him, twisting to meet his eye. "Are you sure?" She knew what he was asking; was she okay with blurring the lines, with allowing fantasies of Neal into their most intimate moments. The fact that he was putting the choice in her hands made her heart swell. 

"Oh yeah," she said, turning back to the pillow, more turned on than ever. Her nipples brushed the sheets. "Now. Do it." Peter dragged his hands up the length of her back and down again to her ass. His palms were sweaty. He held her, his thumbs delving between her ass cheeks, making her moan, and he started to fuck her again, deep and desperate, and she didn't know who he was thinking of, maybe both of them, but it didn't matter, because he loved her, he was here with her. 

Her pleasure mounted quickly, elusive mental images of Peter fucking Neal _like this_ blurring in the periphery of her mind, and when her orgasm hit, she came so hard it almost hurt, her vision whiting out and her body throbbing. She buried her face in the pillow and screamed until she was hoarse. Peter pulsed inside her, but he kept thrusting, his arms wrapped around her holding her tight, until he had to stop. Finally, El let her legs give out, her knees slide to either side, and she flopped down with Peter still half on top of her.

He was flushed, when she turned to him. She could see in his face that he was embarrassed. She pulled him close and kissed him, long and true, reassuring him without words, showing how much she loved him.

 

*

 

Over a breakfast that was practically lunch, El checked her phone. She had a text from Neal: _I told Moz. If you want to talk, you can call him. Thanks again for an amazing day yesterday. xox Neal_ El relayed the news to Peter. "Neal told Moz."

"And what did Moz say?" asked Peter, instantly alert.

"I don't know." El patted his hand. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Yeah, sure," said Peter drily. "We're only talking about the most paranoid man in Manhattan. I wouldn't be surprised if the news brought on some kind of allergic reaction." He drained his coffee cup and went for the phone, and El listened with half an ear while Peter tried to wring details out of Neal, who was apparently more interested in teasing Peter than dishing the dirt on Mozzie. 

After five minutes of this, she decided to go straight to the horse's mouth and called Moz from her cell. 

"Mrs. Suit."

"Hey, Moz. Peter's busy tonight, and I wondered if you wanted to come over for dinner. I'm making ossobuco."

"You know, I'm flattered," said Mozzie, "but unlike some people, I make it a rule not to get romantically involved with government agents or people who are married to government agents."

El grinned. "It's just dinner, Moz, not a date."

"These days, who can tell?" He sounded acerbic, but she didn't think it was aimed at her specifically, and maybe she could talk him around.

She waited, but he didn't say anything else, so she prompted him, "Well? Dinner?"

Mozzie huffed a breath. "I'll be there at seven-oh-four with sorbet. I'll knock six times on the front door, two sets of three. You flick the lights if you're alone and then let me in the back."

"Great," said El, who had every intention of answering the front door when he knocked. "See you then." She hung up.

"Neal won't tell me anything," said Peter, who'd also just put down the phone. He was practically pouting. "Do you think that's a bad sign?"

"I think it means Neal likes to tease you," said El. "Moz is coming over tonight while you're on your date. I'll find out if he's planning to have you hunted down by extraterrestrial assassins."

"Don't joke," said Peter. "If anyone could, it would be Mozzie."

El grinned and picked up the events page of the newspaper, scanning it automatically to see what her competitors were up to. "Oh look, hon, there's an exhibition opening tonight at the DeArmitt. I can make a call and get you in if you want to take Neal—he'd love it."

"An exhibition opening?" said Peter, sounding faintly appalled. "We're supposed to be being discreet, not swanning around town. And there'd be photographers. We could end up all over the society pages. What would I tell Hughes?"

"I don't know," said El. "Neal won a bet?"

"I could say that," conceded Peter. "But—an exhibition opening? Are there even pictures in this exhibition, or is it all weird stuff?" He looked pained at the thought.

El started laughing. "No one's making you go, hon. It was just a suggestion."

But Peter sighed. "No, you're right. It's exactly Neal's kind of thing. Make the call."

"Wow," said El, teasing him. "It really must be love."

After breakfast, they tackled the chores they'd put off from the day before. It was typical, thought El as she loaded towels into the washer, that Neal had been around for the picnic, with its good food and relaxation, but was absent for the everyday business of keeping a household running. It wasn't a fair thought—the chores had nothing to do with Neal; he had his own home and possessions to care for—but El had a sudden vision of Neal helping anyway, his shirtsleeves rolled up, expensive vest, hat angled rakishly on his head, his Italian leather shoes slipping slightly on the tile as he mopped her kitchen floor. She couldn't help laughing. Neal had, by all accounts, spent his twenties living the high life and stealing priceless treasures from most of the major museums in the world. And after four years in prison, he'd gone straight to a mansion staffed with maids and cooks. Assisting the drab, wholesome FBI must practically be slumming, as far as he was concerned—though of course, Peter was the shining exception there, with his brilliant mind and unparalleled closure rate. 

The point was, it was hard to picture Neal doing something as mundane as housework. It would be hell on his manicure. El set the washer going and went to see how much progress Peter had made with vacuuming the stairs.

 

*

 

Mozzie knocked at exactly four minutes past seven, and El let him in the front door, to his grumbling displeasure. "You were supposed to flick the lights."

"You're here now," said El, cheerfully. "What is that?"

Mozzie carried sorbet, as promised, and also a large shopping bag. He gave the bag to her. "It's for you." 

El peered inside and found herself staring at a rigid furry face. "A squirrel?" She carefully extracted the creature from the bag. It squatted on its hind legs, clutching a nut between its paws, its tail arcing up behind it; it was remarkably life-like for a creature that had obviously been dead for some time. "A stuffed squirrel. Uh, thank you?"

"I'm disposing of the estate of my late associate, Akihiro Tanaka," said Mozzie. "He'd have wanted you to have it."

"Well, in that case—" El set the squirrel high on the bookcase in the hallway. It could stay there for a few days, at least until Peter noticed it. Then she'd find it a new home, preferably out of view.

"So," said Mozzie, leading the way into the kitchen, where the air was warm and smelled of tomatoes and veal. He put the sorbet in the freezer himself and straightened up again. "Neal and Peter."

"Peter and Neal," said El, making no effort to hide her satisfaction. She poured two glasses of wine and handed him one, and they went back to the living room to sit on the couch. El tucked her legs up and prepared for disapproval.

Instead, she got blunt concern. "How did Neal talk you into it?"

"He didn't talk us into it," said El. "It was my idea."

Mozzie gestured wildly. "That's what all the best cons make you think." 

El had a moment of doubt. Could Neal really have conned her? Surely not when all he'd ever asked for was a hypothetical kiss.

Mozzie took advantage of her hesitation. "This is insane, El," he said firmly. "Peter is a Suit. And Neal isn't who you think he is."

"Then who is he?" asked El, eager to hear his opinion. "I want to know."

Mozzie didn't immediately reply, his loyalty to Neal obviously warring with his self-imposed duty to warn El off.

"Maybe he isn't who you think he is," said El. When Mozzie still didn't reply, she raised her eyebrows. "What?"

"Actually, you might be right about that." But Mozzie refused to say any more on the matter, and before El could persuade him, the buzzer sounded from the kitchen. 

Over dinner she let him distract her with a description of Akihiro Tanaka's effects. "He had some wonderful _objets de curiosité_ in his collection—netsuke, yatate, antique games, dozens of scrolls, as well as your more everyday treasures. Plus a lot of specialized code-breaking equipment, of course."

"And stuffed squirrels," said El.

"Only the one." Mozzie smiled at her. "Which has now found its right and proper home."

"Right," said El. She pushed a piece of broccoli around her plate and looked up. "Moz, tell me about Kate."

Mozzie's smile faded. "What do you want to know?"

"Oh, you know. Was she a criminal mastermind too? Were she and Neal happy? Did you like her?"

Mozzie put down his knife and fork and folded his arms on the table top. "Three questions," he said. "I can't tell you everything." El tilted her head, trying to sway him—three questions would barely scratch the surface of the things she wanted to know—but Mozzie stood firm. "I can't. But I'll answer three of your questions, if you'll answer three of mine."

El blinked. "All right."

"You first."

"Kate. What was she like?" El carefully kept the question as open-ended as possible, and Mozzie didn't disappoint. He picked up his wineglass and looked into it thoughtfully.

"Young, beautiful, upwardly mobile," he said. "You have to remember she was a personal assistant to one of the most powerful men on Wall Street. Neal thought she was an ingénue, but she was always more organized and resourceful than he gave her credit for." Mozzie was warming to his subject. El suspected he rarely if ever had the chance to talk openly about the past. "And creative. She helped us devise some of our best scams. She gave up being respectable for Neal—and look what it cost her." He took off his glasses and cleaned them, his eyes bleak. It wasn't only Neal who'd been hurt by Kate's death. "But she was always an amateur. She was in it for love." Moz put his glasses back on and resumed eating. "She liked olives," he finished, around a mouthful of food. "And cats."

It wasn't a complete picture. If anything, it only roused El's curiosity further. "Why did she and Neal break up?"

"I don't know," said Mozzie. El raised her eyebrows, and he shook his head. "Seriously, I don't." He sighed and added flatly, "If I had to guess, I'd say he conned her and she found out. He would have done anything in his power to keep her, and the ability to be honest and upfront—that's one of the few things not in his power."

El rolled her eyes. "Lying might be habitual, but it isn't a compulsion, Moz. You have a choice."

"You don't understand," he said. "We're not like you. Honesty is harder than you'd think; it's like learning Cantonese if you have no ear for tonal languages."

El couldn't tell how much he was talking about Neal and how much about himself, nor to what extent he conflated the two. She gave up and asked her third question. "What does Neal want?"

"The Suit, apparently."

"I mean generally. Existentially."

Mozzie frowned and reached for his wine. He looked like he was seriously thinking it through—a real answer, not a brush-off. El held her breath. "If you'd asked me before—" Moz drank deeply and started again. "When Peter was kidnapped last week, Keller demanded a ring as ransom: the McNally Solitaire. It's worth two and a half million, and Neal told me he'd been keeping it—despite certain pressing financial constraints, I might add—because he'd planned to give it to Kate when he proposed."

"Oh."

"I was shocked too," said Mozzie, half to himself. "Neal's a con, but there's a part of him that wants the picket fence, the PTA. It always has. And it's not just grand romanticism. He wants to belong, family—we all want family. But the greater part—" Mozzie held up a finger. "He's the best, El. His forgeries are unsurpassed, his heists are daring and intricately conceived; deception is his second nature. No one could walk away from that, even if they wanted to."

"Not even for love?" said El. 

"That depends—are you an optimist or a realist?" countered Mozzie.

El didn't answer. Of course she'd known Neal had loved Kate passionately: he'd broken out of prison for her, and he was devastated when she was killed. Not long ago, he'd even threatened to shoot Fowler with a gun because he believed Fowler was responsible for her death. But El had always suspected Neal and Kate's romance was an intoxicating adventure; they were a non-violent Bonnie and Clyde, barely more than teenagers when they met, their feelings intensified by a series of adrenaline-soaked escapades. The idea that Neal had wanted to marry Kate, to settle down with her and grow old together—that tightened a strange knot of emotions through El's chest. 

"Now it's my turn," said Mozzie, interrupting her train of thought. "Three questions."

El forced her attention back to her immediate surroundings. "Hit me."

Mozzie raised his chin and looked her dead in the eye. "Are you using Neal as a convenient sex toy to revitalize your stale, suburban marriage?"

"No!" El dismissed the memory of that morning with Peter before it could bring a blush to her cheeks and took refuge in open indignation. "My marriage is not stale! I was perfectly happy before this. And Peter and Neal haven't even had sex yet."

Mozzie held up his hands hastily. "I know, don't tell me. I don't want details."

"Well, then." El took a deep breath and tried to answer again, giving the question and the evident concern behind it its due. "Peter's in love with Neal. And honestly, I think Neal loves Peter. No one's using anyone."

"What about you?"

"I'm happy they're happy," said El simply. It was the closest she could get to the whole truth until she'd had time to examine her reaction to Mozzie's disclosure.

Mozzie nodded, but his gaze was serious. "Be careful," he said. Then he glanced at his plate. "Question two, can I have your ossobuco recipe?"

"Of course," said El. She stood up and cleared away their plates, coming back with two bowls of coconut lemon sorbet. "What's question three?"

"I think I'll keep it in reserve." Mozzie ate a large spoonful of sorbet. "A considered question is worth a thousand hasty answers."

"If that's what you want," said El, and when he changed the subject, she followed his lead.


	11. Chapter 11

The exhibition opening at the DeArmitt was exactly what Peter expected from years of accompanying Elizabeth to similar events: college kids in white shirts and black pants circulating with champagne and plates of hors d'oeuvres, everyone else dressed to the nines, schmoozing, and conceptual art with about as much aesthetic appeal as the contents of Peter's recycling bin. "Give me a good landscape painting any day," he muttered under his breath.

Neal grinned and went back to perusing a sculpture made from kitchen utensils, Legos and cat toys. He was in his element—he'd already greeted one stuffed shirt by name, and several of the women with their coiffed hair and expensive jewelry had cast speculative glances in his direction. Peter forced himself not to react. He and Neal were here as friends, but Neal wanted him. He knew that. There was nothing to prove. 

And even with the art and the people, it was good to be here with him. The craving for Neal's company that had been itching under Peter's skin all afternoon was silent, eased by his proximity and the knowledge that they'd be alone soon. 

"This really does nothing for you, does it?" said Neal, as they moved to the next sculpture.

"Nope," Peter admitted with a rueful smile. "Explain it to me."

So Neal spent the next half hour enthusing about form and conceptual expression and other abstract esoterica, while Peter quelled his skepticism and tried to keep up. It was worth the effort to witness Neal being so engaged, his eyes bright, his quicksilver intellect never more evident. 

Peter did his best not to deliver any scathing verdicts on the so-called works of art—he didn't want to ruin Neal's evening—but when they were only halfway around the room, Neal broke off his monologue. "I think you've suffered enough, Peter. Let me take you away from all this."

"You're enjoying yourself." Peter indicated the rest of the gallery. "I thought you'd want to see it all."

"Some other time." Neal casually shifted his weight so they were standing only a whisper apart. 

The room was crowded enough it wouldn't be noticeable to the casual observer, but Peter's instinctive response was to touch him, and that wouldn't end well. Not here. He opened his mouth to say, "Okay, let's get out of here," but before he could form the words, a husky voice spoke from behind them.

"Nick Halden, is that you?"

Peter and Neal both turned. The speaker was a tall, willowy woman in a slinky black dress. She had brown eyes and hair and distractingly bright lipstick, and she didn't seem to register Peter's presence. "I haven't seen you in years," she said to Neal. "Where have you been?"

"Hi, Maddy," said Neal, easily. "I've been in Europe, working on a new group show. This is a friend of mine, Phil."

"Pleased to meet you," lied Peter, shaking her hand. She seemed nice enough, but Peter was already keeping his relationship with Neal under wraps; any further deception was a bridge too far, especially if it meant using aliases.

Thankfully, Neal cut the reunion short. "We were just leaving," he told her regretfully. "Call me sometime. We'll do coffee."

She pressed her business card into his hand and a kiss to his cheek. "You call me. If you don't, I'll be very disappointed in you, Nick."

"In that case, I'll make sure of it." Neal tucked the card into his jacket pocket and they made their escape. "Sorry about that. Nick Halden used to—"

"Don't tell me," said Peter automatically.

"It was a long time ago," Neal reminded him. "Hughes gave Nick Halden full immunity."

They reached the car, and Peter leaned against the passenger side and looked at him, conflicted. Sometimes Neal's criminal genius was annoying, sometimes it was incredible, exciting in its brilliance. Sometimes it was downright terrifying. "You coordinated group showings of valuable works of art and replaced the pieces with forgeries," guessed Peter.

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets. "Pretty much." He looked away. "No one was any the wiser. No one got hurt."

Peter doubted that had been a priority when Neal had conceived of the scam, but Neal was right: it had been a long time ago. They'd both changed since then. "And Maddy?"

It was nothing to do with him. Neal had been a case file then, a suspect. And Peter wasn't jealous, not really. But her obvious interest in Neal and the fact that Peter had to keep his own claim hidden—that had been tougher than Peter had expected. So Neal's reply was a relief, however irrelevant it was to the here and now.

"Just business. I was with Kate then." Neal's expression was intense in the orange glow of the streetlights, his eyebrows drawn together. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "Peter, I know how much you're risking to be with me," he said. "How attached are you to your plausible deniability?"

Peter blinked. "What are we talking about?"

"I want to show you something. Technically, it's all legal."

"Show me." It felt like a defining moment, like Alice biting into the Eat Me cake, or Keanu Reeves' blue pill in that Matrix movie. Peter unlocked the car, but Neal stood his ground.

"It's not far. We can walk." There was a hint of recklessness in Neal's demeanor now, a spark of devilry. It should have been concerning, but it just made Peter's heart beat faster. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Neal to lead the way, but Neal still didn't move. "I need you to take off my anklet."

Peter didn't let himself question the wisdom of it. He tossed him his keys. "Do it yourself."

Neal crouched down and did it, while Peter called the marshals to authorize the removal. They left the anklet in the car and walked two blocks east, half a block south, into an industrial area. There was no one around. An unlikely suspicion flitted through Peter's mind that Neal was going to club him over the head, stash the body in a dumpster and escape unfettered into the night, but he didn't believe it for a second. And there was no one around. He took Neal's hand.

A few seconds later, Neal tugged him into a narrow side-street, barely wide enough for a car, and after fifty yards or so, down some steps to a locked basement door. Neal took something from his pocket and picked the lock in a few seconds. He reached around the doorjamb to punch in an alarm code and then led the way inside.

It was pitch dark, the air dry and dusty with faint hints of paint and varnish. "Where are we?"

"Wait a minute." Peter heard the rasp of a match and blinked against the sudden flame. Neal lit a candelabra—a gold menorah, Peter saw—and then another, illuminating a windowless room full of shadowy boxes, stacks of crates and large shapes draped in dust sheets. 

Peter had uncovered enough thieves' stashes in his career to know what this was. He went to the nearest crate and pushed the lid aside. As he'd expected, it was crammed with artworks, old, beautiful, rich with life and color. Peter's mouth went dry, his heart pounding in his ears. "Oh, Neal."

"They're not stolen," said Neal quickly from close behind him, his breath warm on the back of Peter's neck. "I had to sell all the genuine items I had left to buy The Greatest Cake."

"Forgeries," said Peter, catching on. He looked around the room. Toward the back, the boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling. "You forged all these?"

"Technically, they're copies," said Neal, lightly. "They're only forgeries if I try to pass them off as the real thing."

Peter pulled out a couple of the paintings so he could see them properly. "They're beautiful, Neal. Wow."

"More your speed than 39 Samples from the Art Industry," said Neal, wryly, referring to the exhibition opening they'd just left. 

Peter smiled to acknowledge the joke, but he was absorbed in the paintings. Even without frames, they seemed weighted with history and grandeur—it was hard to believe they weren't the genuine articles.

Behind him, there was the scrape of furniture, the rustle of fabric. Peter turned with a Rodin in his hand, about to say, "El would love this," and stopped. Neal had uncovered a grand piano from among the clutter. It was decorated with art deco inlaid patterns, and the wood gleamed.

"You forged a piano?" said Peter, startled. 

"A 1902 Bernstein," said Neal. He gave a modest shrug. "Mozzie said I couldn't do it, so of course I had to."

Peter left the paintings propped against their crate and pulled back the covers on another sheet-draped object, this one an immaculately upholstered antique loveseat. "Furniture."

"Rounding out my skillset." Neal disappeared into a shadowy corner and came back with an expensive-looking bottle of whisky and two glasses. He cracked open the bottle and poured them each a measure. "Macallan '46."

"Tell me that's a forgery too," said Peter, taking a glass and holding it up to the candlelight. He wasn't a connoisseur, but he knew Macallan was well out of any normal person's price range.

"Everything here is," Neal reminded him, touching his glass to Peter's. He raised it to his lips and squinted slightly as he savored it, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don't think it's aged as well as the real thing."

Peter sipped his. It tasted damned good to him. Incredible. This whole basement was packed to the rafters with outlandish, outrageous treasures, all counterfeit. If any of this ever crossed his desk at work—

Peter's gaze flew to meet Neal's, as he finally caught on. That was the point. By bringing him here, Neal was giving up the opportunity to sell any of this. It was the ultimate self-incrimination. The ultimate gesture of trust. This was the Neal who'd broken out of prison for Kate, making an equally rash, hot-headed, passionate promise to Peter.

Peter couldn't let that promise go unanswered. He raised his glass in a toast. "You know, you amaze me sometimes. This much talent in one person. You're incredible."

He wanted to say more but the words were slow to come, and apparently it was enough. Neal gave him a brilliant smile—a real one, not the toothy con artifact he sometimes pasted on—and held up his own glass in response. Peter expected another toast or maybe a declaration, but Neal swept the room with his gaze and looked back at Peter, still smiling. "You know, that's why I love working with the FBI. Where else would I get to run scams, pit my wits against other criminals, forge jewels and gamble on the company dime with no lawmen on my tail?" He stepped closer. "Where else could I work with you?"

Peter's breath caught, and he leaned forward and kissed Neal, pouring his heart into it, letting him know how much he cared. It was restrained—hell, they were both still holding their whisky glasses—but it warmed Peter to his bones as surely as a double shot of spirits, radiant and sweet. He hoped Neal felt that too.

Neal pulled away, his eyes heavy and dark, and took another drink. He waved a careless hand toward the loveseat. "Have a seat, Peter."

He pulled an empty crate across the floor to act as a piano stool, its rough wood scraping the bare concrete, and sat down at the piano. "Any requests?" Before Peter could answer, Neal began to play, his fingers spanning the keys with confidence. 

After the other revelations of the stash, the discovery that Neal was a skilled pianist was barely a surprise, but with the alcohol and surrounded by shadowy boxes full of proto-crimes, it took a moment for Peter to focus enough to recognize the tune. When he did, he grinned. It was New York State of Mind. "Billy Joel?" he said quizzically.

"Hey, I remember the eighties," said Neal. "I saw his Greatest Hits in your CD collection." He segued effortlessly into Just the Way You Are. 

Peter spared a moment to be relieved Neal wasn't singing along, that unlike at June's dinner party this was an instrumental performance, and then he sat back and enjoyed the melody, that relic of decades past. Despite the piano's storage conditions, it sounded more or less in tune, and Neal's playing was beautiful and evocative. The CD set was El's, and she never listened to it, but this was the music of Peter's youth. He could recall most of the words, and while some of them struck him now as amusingly backhanded, the general intent was clear. 

Peter swallowed another mouthful of fine fake liquor, burning its way down his throat, and put his glass aside. He went to stand behind Neal, resting his hands lightly on Neal's shoulders. The music faltered, and Neal leaned back against him. Neal—this man who'd insinuated himself into Peter's life, his heart, even his marriage. Everything about him was dazzling—not just the vast array of abilities and the intricate crimes, but his intellect, his passion, his courage. He was beautiful and smart, and he'd brought Peter here, trusting Peter to accept everything he was and everything he had been.

Peter tightened his grip on Neal's shoulders through the perfectly tailored suit, bent and spoke directly into his ear. "I love you."

There was a scrape as the crate-stool was shoved summarily aside. "Say that again," said Neal, and Peter did, to Neal's face this time, and then Neal was in his arms and they were kissing.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter's arms were around him. Peter was kissing him. They were alone with no chance of interruption, and Neal was drunk on revealed secrets, fake Macallan and love. Mutual, requited love. Peter had said it, not to con Neal or because he wanted anything from him, but just for the sake of saying it. And now Peter's hand was on his face, tender and firm, his lips hungry on Neal's, and he was holding Neal tight. He was hard for him. Neal needed to get closer, to uncover Peter, here, now. It was only fair—he'd bared himself by bringing Peter here. He slid his fingers under the back of Peter's jacket and tugged his shirt out of his pants, slipped underneath and found hot skin, small imperfections and long muscles. "Oh god."

Peter tore his mouth away. "Not here. Not in your stash."

"Please." Desperation made Neal shameless, reduced him to mindless begging. "Now. Please, Peter." He tried to recapture Peter's mouth, but Peter was shutting down, pulling away. Neal grabbed him by the lapel. "Come home with me then."

Peter covered his hand. "Did you bring me here to seduce me?"

"No, but—" Neal broke off, abruptly chilled by the question. He gathered himself, took a steadying breath and stepped back. Peter let him go without complaint. Neal tried not to read into that. "No. And for the record, this is my New York stash."

"You have others? Never mind, of course you have others."

Neal pressed his lips together, exposed and all the more defiant because of it. "I'm not hiding anything, Peter."

"I know. I appreciate that." Peter's gaze was still dark. He looked almost as turned on as Neal felt, but he'd called a halt, and he gave the strong impression he was planning to stay halted. 

Neal let his hands fall to his sides. "So what else do you want from me?"

"This isn't a test." Peter reached out to him, but Neal pretended not to see and went to pour himself another whisky. It was petty, but he was feeling rebuffed; he needed fortifying.

"If it's not a test, what is it?" Neal knocked back a measure. "You want me, I want you. Elizabeth has given her blessing. Just—tell me what it is we're waiting for."

"Neal." Peter sounded helpless, but Neal couldn't let it drop. He needed to know.

"You said you wanted to get to know each other again first." He gestured to the basement around them, then to himself. "This is me. You know me."

"You're right," said Peter. "I do know you. But it's been less than a week. I don't want to be impulsive about this."

"Impulsive." Neal stared into his glass, contemplating another drink, feeling stupid. Maybe love meant something different to guys like Peter. Then Peter's words sank in and he glanced up, faintly appalled. "Tell me you and Elizabeth didn't wait until you were married."

"We didn't." Mercifully, Peter looked slightly horrified at the idea too.

Neal decided more alcohol wouldn't help the situation. He put his glass down. "Okay, look, I don't want to be an asshole about it. It's your call." He did his best to mean it. "Take all the time you need, Mario. I just need to know you're not going to change your mind. That I'm not going to turn around tomorrow or the next day and you're all: sorry, Neal, this was a mistake, let's just be friends."

Peter moved closer, obviously wanting to touch him. "I swear. It isn't second thoughts."

 _So tell me,_ thought Neal, but he'd already pushed too much. "Okay," he said instead. "So we're good?"

"We are," said Peter, but he seemed tense and controlled.

Maybe coming here had been an error of judgment. Maybe it was too soon, too much like throwing Neal's past in Peter's face. But Neal couldn't take it back now, so he just clapped Peter on the shoulder and said, "Come on, let's get out of here."

 

*

 

They drove to June's house in silence, and when they pulled up outside, Neal had a horrible suspicion Peter was about to make his excuses and leave, that they were ending the evening like this, weird, stilted and out of sorts. That was no way to end the weekend and definitely no way to begin the week. He started out of the car to forestall any premature goodnights, but Peter grabbed his arm to stop him. "Neal, wait."

Neal reluctantly closed the car door and sank back into his seat.

Peter turned off the engine. He had one hand on the steering wheel, the other still on Neal's sleeve. Both sets of knuckles were pale. "The truth is—"

Neal held his breath.

"I haven't— You're—" Peter shook his head and stared straight ahead through the windshield, as if he were struggling for words. "It's that I want you so damned much it scares the hell out of me." His voice was low and painful. He shifted his gaze to Neal. "Even what we're already doing—it's driving me out of my mind. And it would be too easy to lose my head, to lose sight of everything else—my job, my life, even my marriage."

The world dropped away with a rush like vertigo, leaving Neal dizzy, but he tried to think rationally. "You think it'll change things that much?"

"I don't know." Peter seemed genuinely uncertain. It was an unfamiliar look on him. "It might."

He had so much to lose, so much that meant the world—the Bureau, Elizabeth. Neal ached at the thought and forced himself to ask, "Do you want to call it quits?"

"No," said Peter quickly.

Neal closed his eyes in relief, and when Peter took his hand, Neal interleaved their fingers, locking them together. 

"But I want to feel like I've got it under control," Peter said. "Like you're sure and I'm sure, and it's not this giant emotional hedonistic supernova that's going to consume us."

"I'm sure."

"I know. Me too."

Neal opened his eyes. Peter was watching him, silently pleading with Neal to talk him into it, and Neal could, it was what he did. The last thing in the world he wanted was to come between Peter and Elizabeth, but he needed Peter, and he was pretty sure Peter was overthinking the problem: the lure of the forbidden could be strong—any thief knew that—and the more you tried to deny yourself, the greater the compulsion. Once you possessed it, the mystique began to fade and you saw it for what it was, nothing more or less. Life had a habit of throwing everything back into perspective sooner or later. And if anything started to slip sideways, they'd fix it. Elizabeth wouldn't let herself be left behind.

"Trust me. Let go and trust me," said Neal softly. He angled toward Peter and willed him to let down his guard and take a chance. "You can't control everything. Let it happen. Let it be what it is. I won't let you forget what matters. Elizabeth won't let you forget."

Peter took a deep shaky breath and blew it out slowly. "All right."

"Okay." Neal was light-headed and a little shaky himself. "So—you want to come inside?"


	13. Chapter 13

"And eight boxes of Martha Stewart's autobiography," said Mozzie. "Did you know her ghostwriter was blackmailed by the SEC?"

"I hadn't heard that." El bit back a smile. "What was your friend doing with eight boxes of Martha Stewart?"

Mozzie refilled his wineglass. "An excellent question. Either he suspected the pages contain a secret code, or—"

"Or?"

"Ordering error." Mozzie shrugged. "Could be either."

"There is a third possibility," started El, but she was interrupted by her phone ringing. It was Peter. She took the call into the kitchen, ostensibly so she could put coffee on, but mostly for privacy. "Hey, hon. Everything okay?"

"Hey, hon. Yeah. I just wanted to tell you, uh, not to wait up." Peter sounded different, a little breathless and self-conscious. El wondered if he were calling from Neal's bed, and the idea of that, the very real possibility of it, made her grip the phone tighter.

"Okay, hon." She kept her tone cheerful and confident. "I'll see you when I see you."

"I love you," said Peter.

"I know. I love you too." El still had the phone pressed to her ear when the call disconnected. She put it on the counter and made coffee like an automaton. 

She'd known when she chose this that it wouldn't be all rainbows and kittens, but she'd still made the choice, and having done so, she'd expected certainty to follow, not a lightning storm of confusing flickers: shame and joy, elation and insecurity, gratitude, anger and loss—even arousal at the thought of Peter and Neal together. These were irrational reactions, most of them, the negatives probably exacerbated by Mozzie's earlier doom-mongering. They didn't mean anything. What mattered was that Peter loved her, that he wasn't doing anything to hurt her. She'd all but orchestrated this moment, and she wanted it to happen, for Peter and Neal to be free to love each other. 

She closed her eyes and remembered the picnic the day before: Peter lying with his head in Neal's lap, and how right that had seemed, the uncomplicated happiness that had bubbled up in her then. Sitting beside them in the movie theater, knowing they were barely aware of the screen and unable to keep the grin from her own face. And Peter that morning, loving her with his body. Hers, but not exclusively hers. She didn't own him, and she didn't want to.

In the space of a few deep breaths, the confusion subsided, leaving her calm but expectant. There was a small part of her that wouldn't truly be at peace until she saw Peter again, looked into his eyes and assured herself this change hadn't damaged what they had, that their love was no less. 

Until then, she'd put a good face on it. She took cups down from the shelf and arranged cookies on a plate. The coffee was nearly ready.

"Do you realize that every single movie in your DVD collection has a happy ending?" Mozzie pushed through the door. "That's so—El? What happened?"

"Nothing happened," said El. She had no idea what was showing on her face—Moz looked more curious than concerned—but the idea of putting up a front seemed suddenly foolish. What was the point of having a friend to confide in, if all she did was smile and deflect? "Peter's going to be late home," she said slowly. "He's with Neal. And I'm—" She shook her head, unable to find the right words.

"Hey." Mozzie came forward and glanced down, and El realized she was fiddling with her wedding ring. She stopped and clasped her hands together instead.

"It's just new," she said. "I'll adjust. I want to adjust. But right now, I could really use some reassurance." She grimaced inwardly. Of all the people she knew, Mozzie was hardly going to be a positive advocate for the benefits of Peter and Neal's relationship.

But his expression was oddly gentle. He pushed the cookie plate toward her. "Have a cookie."

"What?"

"Blood sugar boost." Mozzie helped himself to a gingersnap. "El, Peter loves you. Nothing can change that. And Neal would never knowingly do anything to hurt you."

"I know," said El, but it was good to hear it said aloud, especially from a skeptic like Moz. She took a bite of vanilla square, feeling better already. "Thanks, Moz."

"My pleasure," said Moz. He watched while she poured the coffee. "What's the third option?"

"What third option?"

"For the Martha Stewarts." Mozzie's eyes were watchful behind his glasses. He looked like an owl. "A code, an ordering error—you said there was a third option."

"Oh, right." El wasn't sure if he was distracting her on purpose or because he really wanted to know, but she played along. "Well, you know, FedEx could have targeted your friend. Deliberately misdelivered the books to mire him in paperwork and, I don't know, give themselves more frequent access to his store? You said he had some rare valuable items, right?"

"Mrs. Suit, you have a devious mind," said Mozzie, obviously impressed. "You know, any time you want to attend June and my very select book club, you'd be welcome. We convene on Wednesday afternoons, and I can confirm there will be mimosas and cake."

"Maybe I will," said El with a grin, almost completely herself again. She picked up the coffee tray so they could go back to the living room. "So tell me again, what was your problem with my DVD collection?"


	14. Chapter 14

Peter disconnected his phone call to El and put his phone on the table next to Neal's tracker and the bottle of forged whisky they'd brought back from the stash, just as Neal came back from the bathroom.

"Everything good?" asked Neal, casually. He took off his tie, draped it over the back of a chair and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt.

"Yeah." Peter cleared his throat. "Everything's good." It was time to put up or shut up. He'd been sending Neal mixed messages all weekend, kissing hot and heavy and then backing off as soon as his control started to slip. If they were going to do this at all, this relationship, Peter had to trust that it would be okay, it would be worth it. He had to take that step.

And God help him, he wanted to. Anticipation was so strong he felt rooted to the spot, but he pushed through it and walked over to the bed, hoping Neal would follow.

Neal did, but he was keeping his distance, careful not to crowd Peter either because he didn't want to spook him or because he was guarding himself against another rejection. Peter didn't know which it was, but neither possibility was good. This was the damage his fear had done, putting up walls where they were least wanted.

He stepped up to Neal and brushed a gentle kiss across his lips.

Neal's hand came to rest loosely on Peter's waist, tempting him to deepen the kiss, but Peter held back. They'd already tried getting carried away in passionate clinches, and Peter had choked every time. This was going to be different. He touched the top button of Neal's shirt. "Can I?"

Neal nodded, his eyes dark and watchful, and slowly, carefully, one by one, Peter unfastened the buttons of Neal's shirt and pulled the sides apart so he could look at him. He was perfect—even the small scar across his bottom rib only emphasized his strength, his taut stomach, defined muscles—

Peter paused, distracted from his reverence. "Are you—holding it in?"

"What?" Neal raised an eyebrow.

Peter thought he detected an undercurrent of defensiveness, but he couldn't let this pass without teasing. "You're sucking in your gut." 

"Well, you're looking at me," said Neal. "I'm supposed to slouch?"

Peter snorted. "No, by all means, go ahead and set an impossible standard I can't possibly match."

"I can't believe you." Neal rolled his eyes and, in one swift move, he tripped Peter, sending him sprawling onto the bed, and pounced, pinning him down. "Now you're complaining—what? I'm too fit?"

Peter rolled them so he was on top, slamming his knee into the footboard in the process. "Ow! Dammit! I'm not complaining," he said. "Jesus, Neal." 

Getting horizontal had hotwired his brain somehow, revving his desire, and Neal's shirt was still fastened at the cuffs, but it had slipped from his shoulders. Peter couldn't help himself from running his hands up Neal's chest, smoothing over the golden skin—and then, when hands weren't enough, lowering his head and kissing Neal there, breathing in the scents of shower gel and aftershave and a hint of the paint-and-dust smell of the stash. Neal arched up under him, tugging at his clothes but clearly hampered by his own shirtsleeves until Peter relented and caught his arm so he could take out his cufflink. Naturally, this led to a thorough exploration with lips and tongue of the soft skin of Neal's inner wrist. Neal squirmed beneath him. 

It was mesmerizing, and it took Peter a while to notice that Neal had somehow freed himself from his other sleeve—probably just like picking a lock—and was making a concerted if haphazard one-handed effort to get Peter out of his clothes. The fact of it hit home when Neal ran his hand from Peter's ribcage to his briefs, the waistband of his pants having already been dealt with.

"Can we just—" Neal tugged impatiently at Peter's clothes, most of which were still bunched around one of Peter's limbs or another. He was even still wearing his tie, more or less. "Peter, come on." Neal's stomach muscles bunched, and he forcibly sat up, pushing Peter upright in the process. "Where's that methodical FBI agent I know so well?"

"Oh, he's in here somewhere," said Peter, hazily. He was kneeling across Neal's lap, lost in the sensuality of their bodies, relishing the contrast of clothes and skin, the unplanned, unexpected press of their bare chests and the overall trend toward nakedness. He took Neal's head in his hands and kissed his mouth, gratified when Neal's tongue flicked between his lips, but it didn't take long before kissing wasn't enough. He took a deep breath. "You're right. This would be much better—"

"Naked. Right?" Neal gave Peter a gentle shove so he could unfasten his own pants and wriggle out of them. The shirt came off and his socks and pants—revealing, in no particular order, shapely arms, long legs, elegant feet, firm pale ass, hard flushed cock. All of Neal. And Peter could have him.

Peter kicked his self-consciousness to the curb and his clothes to the floor, baring himself to Neal's gaze, warmed by the desire he saw there and jolted when Neal immediately reached for his erection. Peter groaned and tensed automatically at the intimate contact. "Christ."

But Neal didn't start jacking him off or anything. In fact, now they were naked, Neal seemed as willing to luxuriate as Peter had been before, touching Peter lightly, exploring his balls, his pubes, even the crease of his thigh, apparently familiarizing himself with the shape and feel of him, all the while watching his reactions from under his eyelashes. 

Now it was Peter who was driven by impatience. "Neal, please."

"There's so much I want to do with you," Neal told him, but he didn't move.

"Fine," said Peter, trying to thrust into what was frankly a frustratingly loose grip. "Good. Go for it. Anytime now."

Neal snickered. He released Peter's cock, pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips. Peter's head slipped off the edge of the mattress—Peter had long since lost track of the orientation of the bed—and they mutually realigned themselves so he was better situated. "You've been driving me out of my mind for days," said Neal severely. "I think you can wait a little longer."

Peter swallowed a protest. "Fine."

But looking up, seeing Neal hovering over him, lean, beautiful, and aroused, with those bright, intelligent eyes fixed on him, Peter's cock throbbed with pleasure. He wasn't sure he could last even without Neal's hands on him. 

"Don't move," said Neal, and then he was lifting up, stretching across to the far side of the bed. 

Peter hated losing his weight, the pressure of being between his thighs. "What are you doing?"

Neal was already back, now with an unopened packet of condoms and a tube of lubricant. "I want to suck you."

Peter clenched his jaw and focused on the packet, on Neal's slight clumsiness as he fought his way past the outer plastic wrapping and tore the cardboard in his haste to open the box. His hands were actually shaking, and even so, he was taking care to observe El's rules and protect them all. 

The last lingering traces of Peter's hesitation went up in smoke. He managed to wait while Neal extracted a strip of condoms, but then he couldn't stand it anymore. "You do yours," he said, taking one for himself. 

They each rolled theirs on, and then Peter pulled Neal down, heedless of the scattered packaging, the lube, everything, and kissed him, held him. Peter let his hands roam, savoring the press of their skin from arms and chest all the way down. It wasn't a game anymore, no strategies to keep Peter from freaking out, no jostling for the upper hand—no holding back. Neal responded just as earnestly, hooking his leg around Peter's and hitching up against him, grunting slightly with the effort and kissing Peter so urgently, so honestly that it was a revelation even more profound than the disclosure of Neal's stash. 

Neal's fingers bit into Peter's ass, but Peter was only peripherally aware of that, too caught up in the slide of their cocks, Neal's balls soft against his thigh. He'd never been with another man before but there was nothing in him that questioned any of it; there was only pleasure and love and need. He scraped his teeth across the sensitive skin under Neal's ear, making Neal gasp and turn his head, and then they were kissing again, as if they'd never get enough, and a hot twist of passion coalesced in Peter's groin, too intense to deny. Peter groaned against Neal's mouth, clamping Neal to him as he came hard and helpless, sparks of light behind his eyelids, sweat prickling the small of his back.

"Peter." Neal sounded desperate and ragged. Peter groped around in the bedding for the lube, found it by some miracle of chance, and managed to get himself together enough to squirt some in his hand—too much, it didn't matter, just hurry—and stroke Neal, feel him hot and tight, so hard it seemed impossible he hadn't come yet. Neal slung his arm around Peter's neck, threw his head back and swore, and Peter's strokes sped up till his hand blurred in the lamp light. 

Neal's chest was flushed and heaving as he panted for air, and his free hand fisted in the sheets. Peter was half turned on again at the sight of him, gorgeous and erotic and unguarded, and he was about to move down the bed and take him in his mouth, give him what he needed, when Neal tensed and kissed him messily, and his cock pulsed in Peter's hand.

When Neal was finished, Peter pulled him close again, the latex of their respective condoms snagging slightly, creating a weird sensation, but more importantly, Neal in his arms, spent and satisfied and with him. It was strange—Peter wanted him utterly, was whole-heartedly, head over heels in love and in lust with him, but his earlier fears that this new desire could eclipse his connection with El seemed ridiculous now. El was El, and Neal was Neal, and Peter's heart was bigger and more able than he'd ever thought possible.

 

*

 

He got home around four, after a long night of talking, dozing and more sex. Satchmo lifted his head curiously when the door opened, but when he recognized Peter, he went back to sleep, and Peter went upstairs, showered quickly and slid into bed next to his wife.

"Hey," she said sleepily. "What time is it?"

"Late." He moved up behind her and put his arms around her, so different from Neal, so precious. "I love you. Go back to sleep."


	15. Chapter 15

Neal was woken from a sound sleep by his phone ringing. He scrambled to dig it out of the clutter on his nightstand and only registered as he brought it to his ear that sunshine was pouring through the skylight and slanting across the room. He must have slept through his alarm. "What time is it?"

"Quarter to eight," said Peter. "Why, did I wake you?"

"Little bit." Neal sat up and rubbed his face. Four hours' sleep would have to suffice. "How're you doing this morning?"

"Good." Peter's voice was warm and mellow, as if he was smiling. "Great. How about you?"

"Come over and find out," said Neal provocatively. 

"Wish I could. I just called to remind you to put your jewelry back on."

Neal grinned. "Peter, have you been stalking me via my tracking data again?"

"That's what El said," said Peter. "I was just checking. There was nothing to stalk."

Neal laughed. It was actually comforting to be reminded that the anklet was still a point of connection between them. It used to feel like that—tangible evidence that Peter wanted him around—but in the last few days, since their bond had become more explicit and direct, the tracker was feeling less and less like a thing that connected him with Peter, and more like a physical representation of the justice system, a reminder that Neal was under constant surveillance. "I'll put it on now," he told Peter as he climbed out of bed. "Then you can watch me shower."

Peter snorted. "You mean I can watch a small red electronic dot shower. It's hardly the same."

"Hey, you're the boss. You could declare today an FBI holiday if you wanted." Neal put the phone on speaker. It took both hands to fasten the anklet. Once in place, it beeped smugly. "There. I'm back on the radar."

"Good. I'll see you soon." Peter sounded subdued, maybe because of the reminder of their being under scrutiny or Neal's careless reference to his position as boss. Or it could just be that Peter had had even less sleep than Neal. 

"Work mode," said Neal. "Fully clothed, very decorous. See you soon, Mario."

He showered quickly, washing away the traces of the previous night with mild regret but knowing the evening would be recreated soon. His body felt satisfied and relaxed, a little clumsy with sleeplessness but nothing a double espresso couldn't fix. The future was bright.

He dressed, chose a hat to match his mood and hurried downstairs only fifteen minutes behind schedule, whistling a Billy Joel tune, but he didn't make it to the door. June was eating breakfast in the parlor, and he needed to talk to her sooner rather than later.

He knocked on the doorjamb, and when she looked up from her book and smiled, he went in to join her, taking off his hat as he sat down.

"Coffee, darling?" she offered, already picking up the French press to pour him a cup.

"Thank you." Neal drank a much-needed mouthful and decided on the direct approach. June wouldn't judge. "I thought you should know that Peter—might be around more."

"Until three-thirty in the morning?" June arched a knowing eyebrow.

Neal hid his surprise. Of course June kept eyes on everything that happened under her roof; it was only fair, given her generosity with her accommodations—if disconcerting. "Sometimes," he said. "Can I rely on your discretion?"

June inclined her head. "I am a veritable sphinx. And Mozzie assures me the security system he installed is unhackable. I review and delete the tapes every morning myself."

That explained how she knew. Neal swallowed the rest of his coffee and reached for his hat, but June delayed his departure with a gentle hand on his arm.

"Have you discussed this with Mozzie?" she asked. "This house is one of his haunts, and if the FBI is going to frequent it more frequently, perhaps you should warn him."

"I've told him." Neal quelled his defensiveness. "Peter won't cause trouble for Moz. You know that."

"Do you mind if I ask—" June ventured delicately. "Does he make you happy, darling?" Neal met her eye and smiled, letting her see exactly how happy he was, but June's answering smile was restrained. She tilted her head. "You know, if I'm any judge of character, he won't leave his wife for you."

"I don't want him to," said Neal truthfully. "She's willing to share and so am I." Maybe he shouldn't be satisfied with the arrangement, and perhaps one day he'd want more, but as much as he loved Peter, as much as he needed to be close to him, Neal would never dream of trying to replace Elizabeth. She was as indispensible to Peter as his work, she made him a better person—Peter had been right about that, after the poisoning scare—and she was an extraordinary person herself. In fact, one of the perks of dating Peter was spending more time with the two of them as a couple, enjoying Elizabeth's company and feeling welcome in their home. Neal hoped to settle down eventually, to have a home of his own just like they did, and if his luck held, Peter would somehow be a part of that future, but that didn't mean he wanted the Burkes' marriage to break up. Neal would never want that. "I appreciate your concern, June, really, but I have to be going."

"Take care, dear." June went back to her book, serene and yes, sphinx-like. Neal had no doubt that when she and Moz next spoke they'd discuss his affair in depth and come up with all manner of dire predictions, but he also knew he could rely on them. That was what mattered.

 

*

 

Neal brought four cups of coffee to work with him. He would have brought just two—one each for him and Peter—and no one would have thought anything of it, but he was pretty sure if he did that, Peter would decide they were seconds from discovery, so he included Diana and Jones in his order at the coffee cart.

The two of them were standing near the main doors when he arrived on the 21st floor, talking in low voices with serious expressions. Peter was in his office. 

"Caffrey," said Jones.

"You're here," said Diana. She sounded uncharacteristically relieved.

"What's up?" Neal tossed his hat onto his desk and doled out the coffee, using the motions to disguise the fact he was on high alert.

"It's Peter," said Diana. "I went up to ask about the Huskins case, and he nearly bit my head off."

"Maybe he had a rough weekend," said Jones.

Diana snuck a glance in Peter's direction. "Something isn't right. Maybe it's to do with the case, maybe it's personal, but it's something."

"Did you ask him?" Neal took a sip of coffee, acting casually curious.

"He said he'd deal with it later and glared at me till I went away." Being Diana, she seemed more puzzled than wounded by this.

"I'll talk to him," said Neal. "See if I can find out what's going on." He gave them a confident shrug and sauntered up to the mezzanine.

Peter was sitting at his desk, typing. Neal came in and shut the door. "Good morning."

"Hey." Peter looked up, his face expressionless. "Hi."

Neal gave him the fourth cup of coffee, dropped into the visitor's chair and crossed his ankles on the corner of Peter's desk. His back was to the outer office, so he allowed himself a small grin. "Peter, why did you bite Diana's head off?"

Peter winced. "She asked how my weekend was and I said it was good. And then she wanted to know if I saw the game on Saturday, and I—panicked. It's Diana. I can't lie to her."

"You have to," said Neal. 

Peter folded his arms on the desk and hunched over them with a sigh.

"Hey, don't worry," said Neal. "We can fix this. We just need a misdirect."

"Yeah." Peter looked up and locked gazes with him. "Neal, last night—" His eyes darkened.

Neal tightened his hands on his coffee cup. He wanted to kiss Peter. He wanted to hold him until Peter relaxed in his arms. "I know," he said softly. "Me too."

Something beeped on Peter's computer, breaking the moment, and they inhaled in unison and looked away. 

Neal gathered his scattered thoughts. "You're overcompensating."

"I can't lie to Diana," said Peter again. "If I don't make it serious, she won't believe it."

"Well, she thinks something's really wrong," said Neal. He clicked his fingers. "I've got it. There's a Faberge egg missing from the Huskins Collection, right? What if you hinted to Diana that you suspect me of taking it."

Peter frowned. "Why?"

"Then we both have an excuse to act out of the ordinary, and Diana will be watching me instead of you." Neal was confident he could withstand Diana's scrutiny better than Peter could, and as a bonus, this strategy wouldn't have to undermine Peter and Diana's friendship, something that was important to both of them. The less collateral damage created by his and Peter's secret relationship, the better for everyone.

Peter's eyebrows were halfway up his forehead. "You're going to con Diana?"

"A little con. A white lie." Neal took another mouthful of coffee. "And when we find the real thief and clear my name, things can change between us again. Renewed trust. A new normal. And Diana will never know."

Peter looked reluctant. "It's not that it's not worth it," he said. "I don't want you to think that. I just wish it didn't have to be so—"

"Complicated?" said Neal. "I told you, I can handle complicated."

Peter's gaze softened. "I know." 

"Scowl at me," said Neal, before he lost himself in Peter's eyes again. "At least tell me to get my feet off your desk."

Peter gave it his best shot, blustering for the benefit of the rest of the team. "Now get out of here before someone starts to talk," he finished.

Neal stood up, doing his best to look hurt and puffed up on bravado at the same time. "Trust me. No one's going to suspect a thing."

He headed for the door, but Peter called him back. "Neal. You want to come over for dinner tonight? El's cooking."

"She won't mind?" Neal's pulse quickened at the prospect of private time with Peter. He'd half expected he'd have to wait till the weekend before they could properly see each other again, and even if the evening would be relatively chaste in deference to Elizabeth's presence, it was something to look forward to.

"The invitation is from her." Peter's gruff exterior was in obvious danger of cracking, so Neal left before their cover was completely blown. 

It was hard to say how the meeting might have looked to the outside observer—and there was no question that Diana and Jones would've been watching closely—but whatever they thought, Neal could spin it. They'd be fine.

And by the team briefing half an hour later, Peter had a firm handle on his role. He treated the rest of the team perfectly naturally, and Neal with brusque suspicion reminiscent of the early days of their relationship, around the time of the _Le Joyau Precieux_ pink diamond heist.

Diana sent Neal a glance conveying a mix of gratitude and mistrust, and Neal grinned insouciantly and sat back to covertly watch Peter—his mouth, his hands, the line of his back as he bent over the table to flick through files—and anticipate the next time they could be really alone.


	16. Chapter 16

The oven thermostat ticked off, and El absent-mindedly checked her watch and wondered if Peter and Neal were on their way home, or if they'd been held up at the office as usual. If they were going to be more than another hour, she should wait before she put the moussaka in to bake. 

Her gaze fell on her open laptop on the dining table, where she'd been working up a proposal for a new client, and it occurred to her that she could look up Neal's tracking data and find out where they were and if they were heading this way. Peter sometimes used her laptop, so the URL would be in her browser history, and she'd watched him log in to the website enough times, she'd absorbed his password almost by osmosis. She could probably type it in her sleep. But it had never crossed her mind before to collude in the government's surveillance of Neal and—no, she wasn't about to start now. She wasn't Peter, she didn't have the right.

She reached for her phone instead and sent her husband a text message. The reply came swiftly: _On the bridge. See you soon, hon._

El put the moussaka in to cook, poured herself a glass of wine and was about to throw together a salad when her phone rang. It was Yvonne. "We have a problem with the Wickerton banquet."

"What kind of a problem?" said El. "Don't tell me they've changed their speaker again."

"Worse," said Yvonne. "They've changed the numbers. They said a hundred and fifteen guests, and apparently they got a hundred and thirty-seven RSVPs."

"And they're only telling us now?" El's voice rose. The banquet was this weekend. She sighed. "Okay, I'll look over the logistics tonight, and we'll figure it out tomorrow. Oh, and can you call the caterer and make sure he can handle it?"

"You don't want to call him yourself? He might have other handling suggestions," said Yvonne, with heavy innuendo. "Sure, I'll call him now. Also, just a reminder, Sandy's on her way over to your place with the Kierta Michaels contract. It came in an hour ago, and I knew you'd want to see it ASAP. Kierta's red-penned all over it."

"Of course she has," said El, resigning herself to a late night of re-budgeting and contracts. Kierta was a high-profile prosecuting attorney, who was soon to celebrate her tenth wedding anniversary; she'd probably written all kinds of arcane clauses into El's plain English agreement. "Okay, I'll see you at eight-thirty tomorrow at the office. Strategy session and damage control."

"Have a fun evening," said Yvonne drily.

El sighed again as she hung up. She'd wanted to spend the evening hanging out with Peter and Neal. That would have been fun. Instead it was going to be her and her laptop in one room, and them in the other—or maybe even upstairs. She wasn't sure how she felt about them having sex in her bed while she was downstairs slaving over paperwork. That seemed downright unfair!

When Sandy knocked ten minutes later, El answered the door with a rueful, "Don't run your own business. It's not worth the pain."

"Aww, what's the matter, Genghis?" Sandy followed her to the dining table. 

El shrugged and put a resolutely cheerful face on it. "Unfortunately, the customer is always right."

Sandy produced the contract from her canary yellow messenger bag, and El slid it out of its envelope with trepidation. She flicked through it and laughed. 

"What?" Sandy pushed her hair out of her face and peered over El's shoulder. "Did Kierta add in a comedy routine?"

"Better," said El. "Nearly all of this is simple rewording. Can you believe it? Kierta must make hundreds of dollars an hour, maybe thousands, and she wasted her time proofreading my contract." El was too relieved to be insulted. The edits looked bad, but most seemed to be translating El's carefully worded standard three-page agreement into what would eventually no doubt be ten pages of legalese. El reviewed the scrawls again, slower this time, wondering if she'd have to get a lawyer to check the changes. 

The front door opened and closed. "Hey, hon," called Peter, but he and Neal didn't appear. Instead, the greeting was followed by a thud and a tell-tale scuffle. El guessed they'd fallen on each other as soon as they were safely inside—all that pent-up feeling after pretending for hours at work that they were only partners. They were probably pressed bodily against the door, making out. 

El wondered in passing if Peter had jumped Neal or vice versa, and called back, pointedly, "Hey, hon, we're in here!" before they outed themselves to Sandy.

A few seconds later, Peter came around the corner into the dining room. He looked a little flushed, but Sandy didn't seem to notice. "Hi, Agent Burke."

"Call him Peter," said El, adding, as Peter's other better half followed in his wake, "and this is his consultant, Neal." Aside from a stray curl of hair, Neal looked as immaculate as always; introducing him almost felt like showing off. "Neal, this is Sandy Quiros, my intern."

"Hel _lo_ ," said Sandy with poorly disguised appreciation. El hid a grin and left them all to make small talk while she checked on the moussaka, but Peter followed her into the kitchen.

"Is she staying for dinner?" he asked, obviously trying to sound enthused and failing miserably.

"It's okay, honey." Under other circumstances El might have invited Sandy to stay, but not tonight. "She was just dropping off a contract for me."

Peter kissed her hello. "Good. Hi."

"How was your day?"

"Long." Peter ran his hand over his head. "I'm just going to go upstairs and change." 

"Okay. Dinner's nearly ready." El dropped the oven glove on the counter and went back to the living room, where Neal was wearing a wide, toothy smile that reminded El of Alice's Cheshire Cat, and Sandy was giggling at something he'd said, clearly entertained but without the lustful fascination El had expected.

El saw her out, telling her about tomorrow's strategy meeting as they went. "Bright and early," said Sandy. "See you then. And, you know, feel free to bring visual aids—of Neal." She fanned herself.

El snickered, shut the door with a grateful sigh and turned to see Neal crouched down in the living room, patting Satchmo.

"Sorry about that," she said. "I should have let you guys know Sandy was here, but she only just arrived. What did you say to her, anyway?"

Neal stood up and slid his hands into his pockets, his smile wry and not the least bit fake or Wonderlandy. "I mentioned my boyfriend."

"That would do it." El started back to the kitchen. "Wine?"

"Please." 

The reply was heart-felt enough to make her laugh. "Tough day?"

"We had a rocky start, but it turned out okay." Neal leaned in the kitchen doorway while she poured him a glass. "Diana and Jones spent the afternoon in the surveillance van, which helped."

"Diana, huh?" El raised her eyebrows. "She and Peter are close." She started making the salad for dinner while Neal explained the misdirect, that Peter was pretending not to trust him. El looked up from the chopping board, the corners of her mouth tugging down. "Did you really have to?"

"We've done this dance before," explained Neal lightly. "We know the steps."

"And it's always made Peter miserable." El didn't like the idea of resurrecting those old hurts, especially now. They were all too vulnerable, feeling their way through a maze of new emotions. There was too much at stake.

Neal lowered his wineglass. "It's not real this time."

"I know." El tried to butt out, but— "Couldn't you have said there was an illness in the family or something, and that's why Peter's acting off?"

"I wanted to draw Diana's fire," said Neal, and El decided to drop it. What was done, was done. Neal stared into his wineglass. "Though, actually, Peter's doing fine now. I think it just threw him."

El tossed the tomatoes into the salad bowl. "Deception doesn't come naturally to him."

"Not like it does to me?" said Neal, self-mocking and charming with it.

El winked at him. "You said it, not me."

 

*

 

El cleared away her laptop and the papers, and they ate at the dining table. "I'm going to have to work after dinner," said El and told them about the changes to the Wickerton banquet and Kierta's edits. "Budgets and contracts await me."

"Maybe we can help," said Neal. "Creative accounting is one of my areas of expertise."

Peter rolled his eyes indulgently, but he told El, "I can look over the contract, if you want."

"Oh, you don't have to—" said El, but Peter overrode her.

"Many hands make light work," he said. "What needs doing?"

So they spent the better part of the meal discussing the difficulties of accommodating an additional twenty-two guests. Peter and Neal both weighed in with practical suggestions—and plenty of unworkable ones too—to the point where El thought she might manage it without disrupting her existing arrangements too much. "I don't suppose you guys want to quit the FBI to go into the event planning business," she said. "And watch out—Yvonne and Sandy have started calling me Genghis Khan, because I always get what I want."

"What, they don't call you Audrey?" said Neal, a teasing glint in his eyes.

It took a moment for his meaning to land, and then El's cheeks heated. Her post to the online forum, with its Audrey alias. "You saw that? How did you know it was me?"

"I guessed," he said. "And you just confirmed it."

"You pierced my internet anonymity." El affected indignation and started clearing the plates to cover her self-consciousness. "Is nothing sacred?" Belatedly, she realized that sounded like something Mozzie would say, and she glanced up to make a joke to that effect, but the mischief had been wiped from Neal's face, leaving him suddenly serious.

"Would you rather I hadn't?"

Peter was watching them both, but he didn't rush to intervene—a sure sign of how much things had changed between him and Neal.

"It's fine," said El. "I just wasn't expecting—"

"Neal to stalk you online?" said Peter. "At least I'm not the only one prone to that particular failing."

Neal relaxed a little, but he still seemed careful. "I was curious. Sorry."

El reached across and touched his hand. "Make it up to me by balancing the Wickerton spreadsheet and all will be forgiven."

 

*

 

It was late by the time the table was cleared and the work done. The spreadsheet had probably taken longer than if El had worked alone, but it had also been a damn sight more fun, so she wasn't complaining. The three of them retired to the living room couch with refilled coffee cups, El sitting on one side of Peter, Neal on the other. Peter and Neal were still discussing banquet logistics.

Peter stifled a yawn, and El pulled his arm across her shoulders and leaned against his side, her hand on his chest. His and Neal's entwined fingers were nestled in the small space between their respective thighs, and that was fine, but she had a claim on Peter too. She wasn't always going to sit back and defer to their relationship when the three of them were together. It didn't have to be either-or. 

"It's a good thing you have such broad shoulders," she told Peter, looking up at him through her eyelashes and grinning.

He smiled back, his eyes warm, and then yawned again, right in her face.

El laughed and leaned across so she could see Neal properly. "Do you want the guest room tonight?"

"It's a tempting offer," said Neal, "but I probably shouldn't." He crossed his ankle on his knee and tapped the discreet bulge of his tracker. "Wouldn't want it on the record. I'm already spending a lot of time here."

Peter kissed his temple. "It's good to have you here."

"It is," agreed El sincerely. "But in the interest of discretion, maybe we should eat out next time. Ooh, have you ever been to Trattoria Dell'Arte? That seems like your kind of place."

"Not in years," said Neal, his eyes brightening. "You know, I worked there as a sous chef for a week, once."

"What were you stealing?" Peter sounded fondly resigned. "No, on second thought, don't tell me."

But Neal didn't tease him with past criminal exploits, too busy suggesting half a dozen other fancy restaurants they could try. "Those are all inside my radius." 

"I would love to go to any of them," said El, excited at the thought of a glamorous evening she wasn't personally responsible for stage managing. In her peripheral vision, she saw Peter blanche, and she patted his chest with a sympathetic grin. "It's okay, honey. No sushi, I promise."

"If you're happy, I'm happy," said Peter, stoically. 

"It'll be fun," said Neal. "I'll make a booking—exactly where can be a surprise."

They agreed on Friday, and Neal stood up to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow," he told Peter. "Work mode." He grimaced.

"Yeah." Peter gently disengaged himself from El and stood up to hug Neal goodbye. 

El leaned her head back on the couch and closed her eyes, giving them a moment of privacy. She could hear the rustle of their clothes, loud in the quiet room, the soft wet sounds of kissing, Peter's indistinct murmur and Neal's quiet reply. A car accelerated down the street outside. El opened her eyes. Neal's hands were clenched in Peter's sweater as if he couldn't bear to let go.

For a second, El experienced a flash of pure fury at the marshals and their unrelenting observation. Then she breathed a laugh and shook her head. She really was turning into Mozzie. Which reminded her. "Um." She cleared her throat to get Neal's attention. "By the way, Mozzie invited me to book club."

Neal let Peter go and stood back, his composure settling over him like a suit of armor. 

Peter was still grasping Neal's shoulder, but he half-turned to face El. "Mozzie has a book club? Is this anything to do with Oprah Winfrey?"

"You should be honored," Neal told El, ignoring Peter. "I've never been allowed entry."

"I'm looking forward to it, actually," said El. "I was just wondering—does June know about this?" El's gesture included the three of them.

"I told her this morning." Neal met Peter's gaze for a moment, then turned back to El. "It's fine."

El wanted to ask what June had said, but Peter was dead on his feet, it was time to call the evening to a close, and El could always find out for herself on Wednesday. She got up and gave Neal a hug, pleased when he hugged her back. "Good night, Neal" she said, patting his cheek.

"'Night, Audrey," he replied, laughing when she swatted his arm. He obviously wasn't quite ready to part ways with Peter, so El took Satch out to the patio, leaving the two of them to their goodbyes.


	17. Chapter 17

Peter arrived at work early the next morning refreshed by a good night's sleep. He was looking forward to seeing Neal and, almost as much, solving the case and clearing Neal's name in Diana's and his own supposed eyes. Their investigation yesterday had revealed that there was no sign of a break-in at the museum that housed the Huskins collection, and the alarm hadn't been tripped, so there was a good chance it was an inside job. Meanwhile, the Bureau had got a hit on Claude Pauwels, a notorious fence specializing in very rare artifacts, who'd flown into Manhattan from California over the weekend. They had suspects—along with Neal—and indications of a possible plan for disposing of the egg. Now they just needed to narrow it down and find some hard evidence.

Neal was at his desk reading the newspaper and sporting an air of resolute and defiant innocence when Peter arrived. 

"Neal." Peter kept it curt, trusting Neal to recognize the feeling underneath.

"'Morning, Peter," said Neal sunnily. "Sleep well?"

Peter didn't deign to answer. He got himself a cup of coffee and went to his office to look over the surveillance reports. He'd barely sat down when Diana poked her head in the door. "You got a minute, boss?"

"Of course." Peter waved her inside, hoping whatever she was about to say would be case-related, but she stood in front of his desk frowning.

"I've been thinking about it, and it doesn't make sense," she said. 

Peter kept his expression neutral. "What doesn't?"

"Caffrey."

Peter's heart sank.

"Why this egg?" said Diana. "I mean, I know Caffrey likes shiny things, but as long as he's been here, he's had access to all kinds of rare items. You really think he'd risk everything for a Faberge egg?"

Peter sighed. "I don't know. No, you're right." He hated misleading Diana into thinking that Neal was backsliding and shouldn't be trusted. But it would be suspicious if Peter let it drop entirely, and he still needed some kind of smokescreen. He shook his head. "I'm still convinced Neal's hiding something, and I'm going to find out what is it."

Diana snorted.

"What?"

"When is Caffrey ever not hiding something?"

"You're right about that." Peter smiled, despite himself. A knock on the door provided a welcome interruption, and Peter beckoned the guy from the mailroom in with a handful of envelopes.

"And when Caffrey keeps secrets, you always catch him," said Diana, when the mail guy had gone. "You just need to keep him close."

Peter looked up quickly, searching for any sign of double entendre, but Diana looked casually confident. "That's what I'm doing," he said, turning his attention back to the mail. "Was there anything else?"

 

*

 

Peter spent the morning working through the usual red tape of managing an FBI unit while Diana and Jones coordinated the agents keeping tabs on Pauwels and their suspects and applied for the necessary search warrants. The warrants came through just before lunch, but sitting in his office looking down at Neal, studiously bent over files at his desk, Peter decided the case could wait till the afternoon. Even from this distance, in this setting, the sight of Neal filled Peter with love and desire, tainted with a bitter edge of unease. There was no way to reconcile those feelings, and Peter wasn't even sure he should—surely a functioning conscience was a good thing; if he were going to lie to his friends and colleagues, there should be a price—but right now, his doubts and discomfort only sharpened his need. Neal was unreachable here. They needed a time out.

Peter made a couple of calls so he could safely put the case on hold and went down to stand by Neal's desk. "Got lunch plans?"

Neal glanced around casually, checking there was no one within earshot. "I was going to find a clinic and get tested."

"I've got a better idea," said Peter. "Meet me at the car in fifteen minutes."

 

*

 

Their destination was only a couple of blocks away—they could have walked there in less than ten minutes, but driving was inconspicuous, and this was all about anonymity. Peter turned right onto Worth, and then left.

Neal was in the passenger seat, his hands loose in his lap. "Where are we going?" 

"I need to spend the evening alone with El tonight, and tomorrow we're going to the symphony, thanks to you, so I thought—" Peter pulled into a parking garage under what looked like a bland corporate office block and took a spot in the corner near the elevator. There were half a dozen other cars, but no people in sight. They'd beaten the lunchtime rush. He turned to Neal. "It's a hotel, very discreet. I thought, some private time. Is that all right?"

"You have to ask?" Neal's gaze was hot. 

"Yeah, I do." This was the middle of the working day, and Peter was blurring the lines here, but he couldn't help himself. Anticipation was making him reckless. Then he remembered and slapped his forehead. "Oh. I didn't think—I don't have condoms."

Neal smirked. "Yeah, you do. In your wallet. Come on." He opened the door, but when Peter made no move to follow, Neal sat back in his seat, pulling the door to without closing it completely.

Peter was checking his wallet. The credit card slots held two silver foil packets and two green ones.

"Don't leave home without them," said Neal. "The green ones are mint flavored."

"Apparently I think of everything." Peter slid his wallet back into his jacket and raised his eyebrows at Neal. 

"I was considering luring you into the stationery closet." Neal grinned. "Hope springs eternal."

Peter laughed low and leaned across to kiss him, right there in the garage. It was the kind of risk Neal Caffrey the con man would have taken, exhilarating and dangerous. Neal's mouth was welcoming, his breath loud in the confines of the car. He pulled away.

"How did you find this place, anyway?" he asked. "It doesn't seem like your style."

"A few years ago, I was doing surveillance on a Romanian antiques smuggler with a taste for high end call girls, and this place was extremely reluctant to give up their security camera footage. We had to get a—"

Neal held up a hand. "You know what? Forget I asked. Wait here. I'll get a room and text you the number."

 

*

 

The room was plain and clean and private; there was a bed and a doorway through which Peter glimpsed a washbasin and tiled floor. It was all they needed. Neal reached for Peter as soon as they were inside, but between the car and the room, Peter had had time to remember the difficulties that were rearing their heads, and the floor-to-ceiling windows reminiscent of the Bureau offices seemed designed to emphasize the importance of talking before they got carried away. "We have to change our cover story. Diana—"

"Diana always suspects the worst of me." Neal kissed him, soft, teasing. "We're playing into that."

Peter evaded him and stepped away to take off his jacket and tie. "You didn't let me finish. This morning Diana went to the trouble of convincing me you didn't steal the egg."

"See?" said Neal, loosening his own tie, efficiently unbuttoning his shirt. Then he did a classic double take. "Wait, Diana defended me?"

"She said you had no motive."

Neal looked incredulous. "It's a Faberge egg. It's one of a kind, it's worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and it's exquisite. What kind of a motive does she think I need?"

"A better one," said Peter. He went to Neal and took him in his arms. "She knows you. She knows you've faced greater temptation than that in the last year without slipping up. She knows you wouldn't risk your job, your freedom and your friends for a quick score. That's not who you are anymore."

A shadow of resentment crossed Neal's face, fleeting and, Peter guessed, reflexive. Neal's self-image as a world-class criminal and his pride in his talents lived on, despite his having built a new life on the lawful side of the street. "You're right," he said after a moment. "So what did you tell her?"

Peter gave him a wry smile. "I said you're hiding something, and I'm going to find out what it is."

"Oh, you want to know what I'm hiding?" said Neal, bringing Peter's hand to his cock and holding it there. 

Peter's breath caught. He rubbed Neal appreciatively through the expensive fabric of his pants, feeling him harden in response. "I'm going to need you to show me that."

"And I'm going to need you to touch it." Neal's gaze was full of invitation and challenge, and Peter wanted nothing more than to accept. With one hand still on Neal's cock, he guided Neal back toward the bed and pushed him down to sit on the edge.

"Wait there." Peter moved away to take off his own shirt, shoes and pants—he had to return to work after this—and collect the condoms from his wallet. Neal was watching him with heavy eyes, his lips slightly parted. He'd taken off his shirt and shoes now, and the contrast with the dapper man who'd been diligently working at his desk half an hour earlier couldn't have been more striking. And this was nothing like Sunday night, either. Sneaking away to a place like this in the middle of the day wasn't romantic. But it was erotic. Peter couldn't remember being more sensually aware.

Neal widened his legs as Peter approached the bed, leaned back on his elbows. "Come here."

But Peter had other plans. He knelt between Neal's knees and unfastened his pants, fumbling in his haste, and when he freed Neal's erection, hard and silky smooth, he took one of the green condoms and rolled it on. It was trickier than he expected, putting a condom on another man, none of the sensory feedback he took for granted, but he did it.

"Peter," breathed Neal, and in reply, Peter bent his head and licked. The condom was smoothly artificial on his tongue, the mint flavoring like chewing gum, but Peter didn't care because inside the stretch of latex, it was Neal, and Peter had been thinking about this moment, fantasizing about it, for longer than he was prepared to admit. The condom didn't disguise the heat of skin and arousal, or the slight twitch as Peter opened his mouth and slid his lips a few inches down Neal's length, and okay, this wasn't going to be the best blow job in the world or the most polished, but it had sincerity going for it. Peter was counting on Neal recognizing that. 

Peter sucked, and the condom bulged slightly, and it was weird and hot, and Peter wanted to taste Neal's skin, to lick him directly, more than he could bear. He raised his head and gave Neal a rueful smile. "We really need to get tested."

"You're telling me. God, Peter—" Neal looked dazed, his cheeks flushed. Maybe Peter wasn't doing too badly. But even so.

"I'll get better at this, okay?" Peter returned to his task, to getting Neal off with his mouth and tongue and hands. To sucking Neal's cock. The fact that it was Neal was all that mattered.

"Peter," said Neal softly, "look at me," and Peter glanced up without stopping, met his gaze, and the connection was so intense it made his toes curl against the gray industrial carpet. He involuntarily tightened his grip on the base of Neal's cock, and Neal gasped and hitched up, eager, desperate, the head of his condom-slick cock sliding deeper into Peter's mouth. Peter pulled off abruptly, his eyes watering as he tried not to cough, and Neal grabbed him and pulled him on top of him, on the bed. "That was incredible."

"You don't have to be nice about it," said Peter, embarrassed that he'd basically failed his first blow job, but Neal rolled his eyes.

"I'm not," he said. "Just the sight of you with your mouth on me. Do you have any idea—?" He kissed him hard and dirty. "You taste of toothpaste."

"I taste of condom," said Peter. "I'd rather taste you." 

"Gotta play by the rules," said Neal. He kicked off his pants, pulled Peter around so they were lengthways on the bed and stretched like a cat, rubbing against him. "You know what I really want? You to fuck me."

"You—" Peter licked his lips. "Have you done that before?"

"Couple of times." Neal shrugged one shoulder, lithe and casual, his gaze flicking away for a second. Then his eyebrow quirked. "And Kate had a vibrator. Oh, one time I used a carrot."

"A carrot." Peter looked to see if he was serious.

"I was improvising. There wasn't a lot else to hand. It felt good." Neal leaned close and murmured directly into his ear. "Fuck me, Peter. I want you inside me."

"Yes, all right, yes." Peter slid his hands to Neal's ass, dragging him close, and licked up the side of his neck, pulse accelerating. They were on a clock—the case wouldn't wait forever—and this was moving fast, but he trusted Neal to know his own mind, to consider the logistics and make sure they did it right, and Christ, the idea of joining bodies with him, of being that close. Peter closed his eyes to contain the emotions that threatened to swamp him. "Do we have lube?"

"A little faith," said Neal with mock reproach. He leaned off the side of the bed and fished a small tube out of his pants pocket. "Voila."

"I love you," said Peter, helplessly, knowing it was sappy and probably unfair to keep saying it when Neal hadn't verbally reciprocated, but unable to stop himself. "Jesus, Neal."

Neal was too busy uncovering the condoms from where they were folded into the rumpled bedclothes to really respond. He gave a condom to Peter, and Peter put it on and lubed up. Neal rolled onto his side, facing away, and bent one knee, giving Peter access, but before Peter could try to enter him, Neal looked over his shoulder and said, "Start with a finger."

"Okay." Peter kissed his shoulder. "Like this?" He used his lube-slick fingers to lightly circle Neal's hole, the skin soft and obviously sensitive. The intimacy of it was dizzying, and when Peter pushed gently and Neal's body opened to him, slipping around him like a tight hot sheath, Peter moaned under his breath at the same time Neal did. Neal took a deep breath, and Peter could feel the tension in Neal's body and the way that tension ebbed when Neal exhaled long and slow.

"God," said Neal thickly. "Another one."

Peter pulled out gently—it was so easy to be gentle, it felt so right, with all this skin and Neal in his arms, letting him in—and this time he used two fingers, and Neal's groan was louder and deeper, his hips starting to move in response. The skin dragged a little, and Peter added more lube and a third finger, and Neal was pretty much fucking himself on Peter's hand now, his back arching eloquently, his muscles flexing. He twisted to look back, and Peter kissed him as best he could and brushed away the curl of hair that had fallen in his eyes.

"Now," said Neal, and Peter obediently slid his hand free, wiped it on the corner of the sheet and pressed the head of his cock to Neal's hole. There was a moment's resistance, just long enough for Peter to doubt, and then Neal moved back onto him, taking him in, and Peter surged up to meet him, and in that uncontrolled movement something sparked or Peter hit exactly the right spot or _something_ , because Neal shuddered and flung his arm back to grab Peter's hip and hold him there. "Again," he said, breathlessly.

Peter put his mouth by Neal's ear and, with his own hand, covered the iron grip Neal had on his hip. "Then let me move."

Neal huffed a breath—maybe a laugh, maybe indignation—and loosened his hold, and Peter kissed his neck just behind his ear, slid out and thrust in again sharply, trying for the same angle. Neal's jaw moved as he swallowed. "Almost—just—"

Peter tried again, and this time he got it right. It was obvious from the clasp of Neal's body, the way his head shifted on the pillow, stretching his neck and shoulder taut. The bolt of triumph was almost as gratifying as the physical pleasure of being inside Neal, in the melting core of him. Peter wrapped his arm across Neal's chest, his hand over Neal's heart, and found his rhythm, more forceful than he might have chosen, but that was clearly what Neal needed, and Peter was going to do whatever it took, especially after that disaster of a blow job. 

Neal grabbed a pillow and folded it in two, burying his face in it to muffle his groans and all the while arching back to meet Peter's strokes, and Peter held him and fucked him, feeling privileged and powerful and stupid with love. He moved his hand down over Neal's stomach to palm his cock, still in its mint condom, and wrapped his hand around it, bringing Neal with him as his pleasure mounted.

Neal came first—Peter was immensely grateful for that fact, and it was a damned close call, but Neal's cock pulsed in Peter's hand, making the end of his condom twitch, and Neal's hand snaked back to hook awkwardly over Peter's shoulder, keeping him close.

"I've got you," Peter promised. He pressed his face to the side of Neal's head and let himself go, let the pressure tighten and intensify until it was irresistible and there was nothing in the world except Neal's body, the tight hot slide of it clasping him, bringing him to release.

They lay there, tangled together for a long moment, Peter waiting for his heart to stop racing, for his world to fall back into place. Then he pulled out carefully, holding the condom on as he did, and Neal immediately turned to face him, put his hands on Peter's face and kissed him. There was a trail of sweat down Neal's cheek, his hair was a mess, and he closed his eyes when he kissed, his lashes dark against his skin. Peter surrendered to him, let him take whatever he wanted, give what he wanted, and in the process, Peter fell even further.

But reality wouldn't wait forever. "What time is it?" Peter said eventually, checking his own watch as he asked. "Oh Christ." They'd already been gone over an hour.

The shower in the ensuite bathroom was too small to share. Neal washed quickly while Peter gathered his clothes together and waited his turn. When Neal emerged, a dark towel around his hips and nothing else, Peter had to fight to keep his hands to himself, but there was no time. 

"I'll walk back to work," said Neal. "See you there."

"Okay," said Peter. There was no point arguing. It was the safest way. He walked up to Neal, and he didn't know if he was imagining it, but it seemed like there was a tenderness in Neal's expression, an openness that Peter had never seen before. Peter kissed him. "See you there."

 

*

 

"I think I know what Caffrey's hiding," said Diana, striding into Peter's office and shutting the door. She was carrying a file folder, and she opened it on the desk in front of Peter. "I pulled his tracking data, and at lunchtime today, he spent over an hour at 53 Mulberry Street. Remember that Romanian antique smuggler a few years back?"

Peter stared at the map printout blindly and tried to keep the alarm out of his voice. He'd been feeling fortified all afternoon. Bulletproof. And now this. "You pulled Neal's tracking data?"

"It's his best alibi," said Diana. "We know the Faberge egg was stolen on Friday night, between the museum closing and the security guard's midnight round, but Neal was home all evening on Friday."

"He didn't take the egg." Peter should have sounded pleased, but all he could think was, _I know he was at home. I was with him._ And he could say that. There were plenty of innocent reasons for Peter and Neal to spend time together. But before he could open his mouth—

"Nope. He's having an affair." Diana folded her arms. 

Peter looked up quickly. "We don't know that."

Diana's expression clearly said, "Come on," and all the alternative explanations that Peter could provide—that Neal was using the Mulberry Street hotel as a cover for shady dealings, he'd been liaising with a fellow criminal—were worse than this. There was nothing to prohibit Neal from having a clandestine affair—so long as no one found out Peter was the other party. 

It was becoming increasingly clear why this kind of thing was commonly referred to as a web of deceit: tangled, sticky, potentially fatal. Diana was a dangerously good detective.

Peter sighed and sat back in his chair, wondering if he should just tell her and get it over with. "Diana, have you ever had to keep a relationship secret?"

"Have I ever been in the closet?" Diana took the visitor's chair. She looked somber, but her tone was as matter-of-fact as ever. "Once, just after Quantico. I was seeing a stockbroker from a religious background, and she took me to stay with her family for a week as friends. I hated it. They were really nice to me, and I was lying to their faces. It made me feel like an asshole."

Peter leaned forward. "What happened? To the relationship?"

"I kept on at her to come out to her family, maybe it wouldn't be as bad as she thought, at least then they'd know who she really was—until she finally did." Diana sat back, her face blank. "They told her she was going to burn in hell, they never wanted to see her again. And she blamed me. It was a mess."

"I'm sorry." Peter could picture the situation all too easily.

But Diana shrugged. "You live and learn. I made a rule after that not to get involved with anyone who wasn't out to their family. Some people can handle that, lying and pretending not to care. I can't." 

From her expression, it was clear she didn't have a lot of sympathy for those who preferred to stay in the closet, and Peter experienced a pang. He valued Diana's regard, and her voice of experience. What if she was right—that he was doing Neal a disservice by asking him to lie? Didn't he deserve to be loved as openly as El? But that simply wasn't an option, and having come this far, Peter was committed to Neal, and by extension, to the lie. 

Diana was frowning. "Why would Caffrey keep a relationship secret?"

Peter shook his head, unwilling to speculate.

"Well, maybe you should talk to him." Diana stood up and then paused. "Oh, there's something else. When I was checking Neal's tracking data, I noticed something. He goes dark Sunday evening at seventeen past eight and doesn't come back online for nearly twelve hours."

Dammit! Peter cast about for an explanation that wouldn't incriminate either himself or Neal, but he had nothing. The exhibition opening wouldn't explain the need to remove the anklet, and Neal had taken Peter to the stash in confidence. Peter could tell her about it anyway—he trusted her to keep that under wraps—but if he did, she could still ask why Peter hadn't put the anklet back on immediately after. It was a good question. There was no answer—especially when Peter was supposed to be doubting Neal's integrity.

"How could he have—?" started Diana.

Like divine intervention, Jones knocked and stuck his head in the door. "Peter, we've got word that the Faberge egg might not be the only reason Claude Pauwels came to town. He's on his way to a meeting at Sotheby's."

"Okay," said Peter, relieved to be off the hook and on the case. "Let's go and find out what he's selling."


	18. Chapter 18

Neal was doing his best to make Peter's show of suspicion toward him appear plausible, but that meant reacting with injured pride. It was a particularly challenging charade that afternoon, when all he really felt was deeply and profoundly satisfied. He thought back to a week earlier, before all this had started, and imagined trying to convince his former self that within seven calendar days, Peter would come to his desk and covertly suggest a nooner—and follow through on it all the way. His earlier self wouldn't have bought it for a second. 

And the reality had been so much more than fantasy could have hoped. Neal's body felt achy and used in all the right ways, tired, _connected_. He simultaneously thought he could sleep for a week and leap tall buildings. If he focused, he could still feel the imprints of Peter's hands on him, still taste traces of mint. Aside from the fact that they'd had to come back to work, Neal was pretty much living the dream.

He flicked back through the last five pages of the file on Claude Pauwels he'd been reviewing, aware that very little of the information it contained had sunk into his distracted brain. Diana was in Peter's office again. Neal stole a glance, accidentally caught Jones' eye, shrugged as if irritated by the whole situation and forced his gaze back to the file, but all he could think about was Peter. 

How much had lunch been a pressure valve for Peter, how much pure desire? How much a distraction from the deceit? Could Peter hold on to their secret long enough for the lie to become automatic and everyday? Elizabeth had been right when she said deception didn't come naturally to him—he was great at undercover when his conscience was clear, but otherwise his acting could be shaky—and he worried at possible disaster as if his intellect were unable to rest. Perhaps that was the real reason he was a workaholic; he didn't have an off switch, and it was more comfortable to direct his energies at capturing criminals than at the potential pitfalls of daily life. 

Right now, daily life was smacking Peter in the face. Neal hoped Diana wasn't cornering him up there in his office. Perhaps Neal should find an excuse to interrupt them and take some of the heat. He dug in his in-tray for a memo, a form, anything he could use, but then Jones hung up the phone and ran up the stairs to the mezzanine, saving Neal the trouble. 

A few seconds later it was action stations, everyone piling into the elevator, and then the surveillance van with Jones at the wheel. Neal caught Diana sending him curious but sympathetic looks and remembered she'd defended him to Peter. Was that why she'd been in Peter's office just now—championing him again? Peter gave no indication one way or the other; he was fully engaged in work, barking orders and avoiding Neal's gaze as if his life depended on it. 

When they got to Sotheby's, Peter said, "Diana, you and Jones keep eyes on the exits. If Pauwels leaves, follow him. Neal and I are going in."

"Do you want us to contact the management?" said Diana. "If we ask, they might be able to stall Pauwels."

Peter shook his head. "We don't want to spook him. If we intervene too early, he could pass off any inquiries he makes at this meeting as hypothetical."

Peter led the way out of the van, across the street and into the auction house. That was the hardest part—they were in public but no one was watching, and Neal itched to reach out and touch, to take Peter's hand or just clap him on the shoulder. But Peter was already edgy, and even subtle displays of affection would exacerbate that. They were here to work.

At least, Neal had assumed they were. In the foyer, Peter turned aside, ostensibly to survey the display cases full of treasures that would once have tempted Neal to breaking. It was an opportunity to talk privately. Neal hardly spared the items a glance. "Peter?"

"I have to tell Diana," said Peter under his breath.

"What? No." Neal turned to him, hands spread earnestly. "Peter, you can't." However much sympathy Diana might be displaying toward him, Neal didn't think her goodwill would survive the news that Neal was sleeping with her boss, and the risk to Peter's career was too great to even consider.

"She's going to figure—"

"She's not going to figure it out," Neal said, talking over him.

Peter spared him a sideways glance. "She checked your tracking data. She knows about the hotel."

"She checked my GPS?" The band on his ankle seemed to tighten, a weight he couldn't shake, and resentment flared in his chest. It was one thing for Peter to keep tabs on him, but the rest of the team surely owed him some privacy. 

"She was getting you an alibi for the egg," said Peter. "She's checked your data for me so many times before, she probably didn't think anything of it."

Neal sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "That egg story was not my best work."

"She knows you're having an affair," said Peter, folding his arms. "It's only a matter of time before she puts two and two together."

Well, that explained why her distrust had subsided. Neal turned and stepped closer, lowering his voice even further. "Breathe, Peter. I've got this."

"I should tell her before she finds out for herself." A muscle moved in Peter's jaw, and his lips were at their most stubborn. That didn't stop Neal wanting to kiss him.

He quashed the impulse and locked gazes with him instead. "Remember who you're talking to. I can handle Diana. And you know, she's better off not knowing, for her sake as well as ours. You don't want to put her in that position."

The hard shell of Peter's gaze fractured.

"Anyway," said Neal, pushing his advantage, "Elizabeth said no major developments without discussing it with her. And I think coming out to your right-hand FBI agent qualifies as a major development, don't you?"

"You're right, but—"

Neal squeezed his arm, making it look casual when it was anything but. "Trust me."

Peter hesitated, then nodded. He straightened his shoulders. "Come on. We've got work to do."

That was their last chance to talk for hours. They followed Pauwels from Sotheby's to a meeting in the back room of an expensive wine bar, and then retreated to the van where Peter told Jones to remove Neal's anklet, so Neal could go in and secure the egg.

"Pauwels is dangerous," said Peter. "Be careful in there."

"It's what I do," Neal reminded him. "I'll be fine."

"The blue sedan near the corner belongs to Malcolm Leder, one of our suspects from the museum," reported Jones, who'd been running the plates of the vehicles parked in the area, in an attempt to figure out what kind of meeting Neal would be walking into. 

"Will Leder recognize Neal?" asked Diana.

"Jones interviewed the security staff at the museum," said Neal. "Peter and I were talking to the curator and the docents."

Peter raised his eyebrows at Neal, checking in, and Neal nodded, confident in his role. It was a simple matter: talk his way in, persuade the thieves to reveal the egg, and keep it out of harm's way while the rest of the team came in and made the arrests. Peter gave him the watch with its built-in audio feed, and Neal tested it with the activation phrase, "It's exquisite."

"Don't take any stupid risks," Peter told him gruffly, and Neal swallowed the declaration of love suddenly threatening to spill out and winked instead. 

 

*

 

Pauwels was a thickset man in his forties who, based on the shape of his nose and ears, had probably been a professional boxer before retiring to his current life of criminal enterprise. He was sitting at a table with two others—a tall man in his early twenties, wearing a baseball cap, presumably Leder, and a woman about the same age in a leather motorcycle jacket, who Neal assumed was Leder's partner in crime. The thieves were both jumpy, while Pauwels radiated authority and violence. On the bright side, it looked like he didn't employ additional muscle.

Neal cleared his throat. "Let myself in. Hope you don't mind."

Pauwel's chair scraped against the polished stone floor. "This is a private room," he said. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the guy who's going to cut you out of the deal." Neal tilted his head at the thieves. "Whatever he's promised you, I'll give you thirty percent more."

"How did you find us?" asked Leder, his eyes widening.

"I followed Claude here." Neal stepped closer, casually putting some distance between himself and Pauwels. "He's not very subtle. You should go with a professional, one who'll give you the best deal."

"Who _are_ you?" asked the motorcycle woman. She glanced at Pauwels, who was unfolding himself from his chair and bristling like an overgrown Rottweiler.

"Nick Halden," said Neal smoothly. "I represent a very powerful, well-connected man who will do whatever it takes to get his hands on that egg. Take my advice, accept the offer."

"I don't know." The woman's eyes darted to Pauwels again. "We already have a deal."

Neal kept his smile in place, but he was starting to feel a little sorry for the thieves. They were clearly amateurs. Still, they'd be safer once they'd handed over the egg.

"Get out of here, before I throw you out," growled Pauwels, advancing on Neal. 

"One hundred and fifty percent," Neal told the thieves. "If it's in its original condition, that is. Can you guarantee that?"

"One and a half million, Andy," said Leder.

"I don't know," repeated Andy, leaning sideways to put more distance between herself and Pauwels. 

"Show me the egg," said Neal. He could practically hear Peter's impatiently telling him to get on with it before someone got hurt. "I need to see it before I can confirm the offer."

"That's it!" Pauwels took a swing at Neal, who ducked out of the way and moved further around the table. 

"See?" said Neal. "You really don't want to do business with this guy. The first rule of backroom dealing: keep a cool head."

"I'm going to kill you," said Pauwels, reaching into his jacket.

"No, you're not," said Andy, pulling a nine millimeter handgun out of her boot and pointing it at him. She flicked the safety off. "You're going to shut up and not say a word while we talk business like fucking adults."

Pauwels froze, and Neal redirected his attention from the murderous fence to the armed thief whose hands were shaking. Neal would bet anything she'd never shot anyone before, but there was always a first time, and this was a volatile situation.

"Nice gun," he said, so Peter and the rest of the team would know what they were walking into.

"Thanks." Andy didn't take her eyes off Pauwels. "Mal, show Halden the egg."

Leder took a bundle from the floor beside them and passed it over. They'd wrapped the egg in bubblewrap and stuffed it into a shopping bag. Neal winced at the mistreatment—that was the real crime here—but he took it out and inspected it. "It's exquisite. One and a half million, are we agreed?"

In the van, Peter would be yelling, "Go! Go!" Neal just had to keep Andy and Pauwels from killing anyone for another thirty seconds. But Leder was looking at him, eyes narrowed. "How do we know you can pay?"

"Oh, you'd be amazed by the resources at my disposal. Seriously." Neal smirked. "Cash or check?"

Pauwels glared. "Don't trust him. I've seen his type before. He's a con—all talk."

"Okay, listen," Neal told Pauwels, enjoying himself, "maybe we can do a deal. Go halves. You want to go halves?"

"You bastard," snarled Pauwels, and he lunged at Neal, heedless of the egg or Andy's gun or the deal.

Everything happened at once: Leder snatched the egg out of Neal's hands, Pauwels' fist connected with Neal's jaw so hard it made his teeth rattle and he staggered into the wall, a shot cracked the air, something smashed, and the door burst open letting a flood of federal agents into the room. 

Jones had Pauwels face down on the floor in seconds, and Andy surrendered the gun without any resistance. Peter pushed through the chaos to Neal's side, his face set. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Neal rubbed his aching jaw. "Probably shouldn't have goaded him."

"Probably not." Peter shook his head with familiar fond exasperation, and it was almost funny how easy it was to slip into their usual roles, buoyed up and punchy after a close call and a successful bust. Neal wanted to lean into Peter, but he controlled himself easily enough, instead retrieving the egg from Leder and looking around at the rest of the team in action. It was good to have backup.

"Just as well our gun-wielding thief had lousy aim," he said, his gaze falling on the crate of sauvignon blanc that had been the sole victim of Andy's shooting.

Across the room, Andy interrupted Diana's reading her rights to say, "Oh bullshit! It was a warning shot. If I'd been aiming for him, I'd have got him."

"Jeez, Andy, shut up!" said Leder, sounding disgusted. "Don't say another word until you speak to a lawyer. You know that!"

Pauwels just spat, "Bastard," as Jones hauled him away with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

They went back to the office. It was nearly nine o'clock, but there were statements to take, preliminary field reports to write up and a lot of coffee to drink, business as usual. 

Diana seemed to have forgotten about Neal's affair in all the excitement, and the only real change Neal made in his behavior around her was to be fractionally less careful about hiding his happiness. She might be curious to find out the gossip, but as long as Neal didn't raise the subject, she wouldn't pursue it; his private life was none of the FBI's business. And now that his cover was an approximation of the truth, Neal didn't have to bother with misdirects anymore. As always, a truth that wasn't the whole truth was the best kind of lie.


	19. Chapter 19

El took the latest AB Tattersall to the kitchen with her and made a cup of tea. The book had appeared in her letterbox that morning in an unmarked envelope with no stamps or courier stickers, only a type-written note inside that said: _For Book Club. 3pm Casa June. Tell no one._

El suspected if she dusted the package for fingerprints, it would be clean, and she wondered if Moz really were paranoid or if playing the eccentric was a game to him. How much did he really have to hide? It was hard to believe he was a desperate criminal, but perhaps that was the point, camouflage through quirkiness. Anyway, Peter and Neal were working late, the Wickerton banquet was under control and Kierta's contract was one step away from being signed, so El figured she might as well prep for book club, on the off-chance she could get away. 

The novel wasn't what she'd expected, given the reverence with which Mozzie and even Neal referred to the club. El had anticipated highbrow discussions of the Russians or contemporary literature. Tattersall was entertaining for a detective thriller, but he didn't write beautiful prose, and the plots were strewn with holes. She liked the characters though—she could say that honestly—and at least it was a quick read.

She took her tea back to the couch. Tomorrow she'd ask why they'd chosen it.

Around chapter twenty-six, Peter called. It was five to ten, and El hoped he wasn't about to say he was pulling an all-nighter, but she kept that hope to herself. "Hey, hon. How's it going?"

"I'm on my way home," said Peter. "Ten more minutes. Listen, we caught a big fish today, and he's just flipped on a bigger fish to cut a deal, so Neal's going undercover to corroborate our guy's story. For a few days, could be up to a week."

El closed her eyes. "Is it dangerous?"

"He'll be fine," said Peter. "It's right up his alley. He even has the perfect alias from back in the day, George Daventry. The thing is, he's off-anklet for the operation."

"And you want to stay over." El bit her lip. She didn't want to say no, but she did want her husband home tonight. 

"Not exactly." Peter cleared his throat. He was speaking so quietly has was almost whispering, even though she was sure he wouldn't be having this conversation where anyone else could hear. "But since he's off-anklet, I was thinking I could bring him home for a couple of days. To stay."

"Oh." El blinked. "Uh, sure."

"It's completely up to you, hon. It's your house."

"It's our house," said El. "And Neal is welcome here. I'll make up the—he'll be sleeping in the guest room?" Which was a stupid question: where else would he sleep? But El was unaccountably thrown by the prospect. Where would Peter sleep?

"Of course," said Peter. "Thanks, hon. See you soon."

El hung up and pressed the phone to her chin, getting used to the idea of her husband's boyfriend, his lover, sleeping under her roof. It was one thing to share Peter for an evening, now and then, or to know he and Neal were on dates, but daily life—breakfast and late at night, walking Satchmo, chores and grocery shopping—how would Neal fit into that? Would he take over, change everything, or would the great Neal Caffrey be assimilated into their lives? Maybe a little of both.

El grinned to herself. She might get to see Neal mop her kitchen floor yet. 

 

*

 

It was nearly an hour before Peter and Neal walked in the door, Neal with an overnight case and a garment bag. They both looked tired, and they didn't grab each other this time, though El thought she saw both of their postures relax when the door closed and they were safely home. Once the bags were stashed at the bottom of the stairs, Peter reached out and gripped the back of Neal's neck. El caught a glimpse of Neal's smile, soft and private, meant just for Peter.

"Hi," she called from the living room, announcing her presence. They both looked around and then came through, and she got a better look at Neal's face. "What happened to you?" There was a dark bruise on his jaw, unmistakeable despite his five o'clock shadow. El stood up, letting her book fall to the floor. "Are you okay?"

"Someone shot at him again," said Peter. He didn't sound worried or upset, so the situation couldn't have got too bad, but the news still made El's stomach twist. Now she had two men doing dangerous work to worry about, and Neal walked into the firing line even more often than Peter did.

"Actually she shot at the guy who was trying to kill me," said Neal, as if it were a joke. "And the only casualty was a case of Dog Point sauvignon blanc."

El bit back her concern and clasped his arm briefly. "I'm glad you're all right."

"Me too." His gaze still held traces of the warmth he'd shown Peter. "Thanks for having me to stay."

Peter came over and kissed her hello, wrapping her in his arms. "Hey, hon."

"Hey, hon." El hugged him back, so pleased to see him that for a moment the world fell away, but the sound of Neal's greeting Satchmo brought her back, reminding her they weren't alone, not in any sense. She pulled away self-consciously and sat down again, picking her book off the floor and noting the page number before she set it aside. "Other than being shot at, how was your day?"

Peter sat beside her on the couch, and after a moment's hesitation, Neal took the armchair. He seemed slightly unsure of himself too, still finding his place, and recognizing that made El feel better. They were both figuring this out as they went.

"Diana found out Neal's having an affair," said Peter flatly.

"But not with whom," said Neal.

"How did she work it out?"

Neal glanced at Peter with a mix of pride, possessiveness and guilt. "She checked my GPS."

"We went to a hotel at lunchtime," said Peter, blushing slightly. "A very discreet hotel."

"So discreet that Diana knew exactly what it was as soon as she saw the address," teased Neal. He turned his attention back to El. "It's okay. Now she knows I'm hiding something personal, she won't ask for details. Peter's out of the limelight, I'm only lying by omission, and Diana retains her plausible deniability. Win-win."

"A lunchtime assignation." It sounded romantic and intense, and El felt a tiny pang, but Peter and Neal's relationship was new and heady, fraught with secrecy, and it made sense that they'd need to steal away, even if it was risky. If she wanted to meet Peter for sex in the middle of the day, she could just say so—he'd probably be thrilled. But she already had a home with him, a life. She didn't need that too.

The important thing to remember was that she was sharing Peter with Neal because she wanted to, she'd already decided that. Feeling off-balance or overreacting every time they demonstrated their love for each other wouldn't help anyone. Better to enjoy the moment, take pleasure in their happiness; and they really did seem happy—as well as quietly settled, without the desperation of last night's farewells. It made her smile. "Well, good," she told Neal. "That means I won't have to flip you for him tonight. It's my turn."

"El! It's definitely your turn." Peter's vaguely scandalized expression made El and Neal exchange grins. "I meant to be home earlier, but—"

"Work," said El. "I know. You can make it up to me by taking me to the symphony tomorrow. Now, have you boys eaten? There are leftovers in the fridge."

 

*

 

El sat in bed, the Tattersall on her lap, and listened to the sounds in the house as she waited for Peter to join her. That was the back door closing, letting Satchmo in for the night. Those were Peter and Neal's footsteps on the stairs, their voices murmuring. Footsteps and voices both stopped on the landing, and El knew they were hugging, probably kissing, goodnight. She tried to read, to give them all the time they needed, but the words refused to resolve into meaningful sentences.

Sooner than she expected, Peter came in and shut the door behind him. He looked tired but peaceful. "Hey. What are you reading?"

"It's for Mozzie's book club." El showed him the cover, and then abandoned any pretense of serenity herself. "Come here."

He came to her at once, still dressed, and sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her tightly in his arms. She put her head on his shoulder and let out a deep sigh. Ever since the phone call, a part of her had been insisting he'd want to share Neal's bed, that he'd rather be with him, and she'd been ignoring it as hard as she could, but now Peter was with her, without question or any sign of reluctance, and when she raised her head, he kissed her as lovingly, as honestly as he always did.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She hadn't known when they started this how much she took Peter for granted. Commonsense told her she would again, probably sooner than she imagined, but right now, she was immensely grateful for his arms around her and the chance to bask in his love.

"Would you rather Neal hadn't come?" he asked.

She looked up and saw uncertainty on his face, a reminder that she and Neal weren't the only ones feeling their way. It was all three of them. She considered his question carefully, wanting to give a true answer. "I'm glad he's here. But I'm more glad that you are, here with me. My husband."

"Always." He kissed her again. 

"It is my turn, after all," she said, ruffling his hair. She felt better now, comforted and light with humor at the situation. All she'd needed was a little reassurance, to be alone with him. She waggled her eyebrows. "Come to bed."

His face softened at her teasing, and he got up and undressed quickly, then slid between the sheets, into her arms. El turned out the light, and they held each other in the dark, talking about the day, El's success with the banquet and Peter's with the case, their voices soft and drowsy, Peter stroking her hair. 

Two rooms away, Neal was no doubt reviewing his own version of the day's events, and El hoped he wasn't lonely, that being close by with the promise of breakfast with Peter, unmonitored by either the marshals or the FBI, was enough. She wanted Neal to be happy, to get what he needed. That was important. But right now, she needed to be alone with her husband more.


	20. Chapter 20

On the surface, when Peter woke up everything was normal. El was sleeping at his side, her hand on his chest, her breathing deep and even. They were alone in their bed, in their room. The house was quiet. It was six-thirty, give or take. Peter lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, appreciating the ordinariness of it all and thinking about the day before. 

He'd screwed up: he'd panicked every time Diana talked to him about Neal, stopped thinking and overreacted like the guiltiest of criminals. And going to the hotel in Mulberry Street had been unforgivably risky. Well, no more. From now on, he was going to keep a cool head, play it smart and trust Neal to keep their cover airtight. Between them, they could do this. And Neal was right—telling Diana would put her in an impossible position. For her sake as well as theirs, she could never know.

In the meantime, Peter was in bed with his wife, a perfect picture of domestic monogamy, while close by, in the narrow bed of their guest room, his boyfriend was presumably sleeping too, his body sprawled, warm and relaxed. Peter's cock stirred, and he closed his eyes, resisting temptation. Even if El was asleep, this was her turn. He wanted to be here when she woke up, for them to start their day together like they always did. But he also wanted to go to Neal and wake him with kisses, to slide between his sheets and feel the press of their naked bodies. 

He was spoiled for choice, he knew that, but it didn't make him feel smug so much as concerned. It was a delicate balance, making sure both of them knew how much he cared, trying to be fair when El had a prior claim and the relationship with Neal was still new and urgent. People messed up their entire lives for this kind of passion, they threw away marriages and careers, they sold out friends, colleagues and governments. Given who Neal was, the fact that Peter was able to have him without losing everything else was down to El's generosity and pure luck. Eventually, luck always ran out. So—no more risks.

El stretched and turned in his arms, blinking sleepily. "Hey," she murmured, with a soft smile, "you're still here."

Peter stroked her back. "Right where I want to be."

Her smile widened. "But not the only place you want to be." 

She sounded comfortable with the knowledge, happy even, and Peter couldn't deny it. He was doomed now to always be torn in two—but as long as both of them were this understanding, there were far worse fates. 

El kissed him, familiar and sweet, and added, "So go. I'm about to reach the gripping conclusion of my book anyway, and I'm sure there are other things you'd rather be gripping."

Peter shook his head at the cheesy entendre, but he cupped her cheek too. "Thank you," he said, making sure she heard the love behind it.

She grinned and reached for the novel on the nightstand.

Peter got up and padded into the hallway in just his shorts. The door to the guest room was slightly ajar, the room dark, and when he tapped there was no answer. Neal must still be sleep. Peter pushed the door open, but the bed was empty, the covers pulled back.

A week ago, he might have leaped to an alarming conclusion and questioned everything, wondering if Neal had engineered all of this solely to get his anklet removed—but after the revelation of his stash, the sex, the closeness, there was no doubt in Peter's mind, only trust. They were in this together. And as he thought that, the toilet flushed and the bathroom door opened. Peter turned to see Neal in his pajamas heading his way, blinking against the morning light. 

"Looking for something?"

"Someone," said Peter, backing him against the open door of the guest room. "I was going to surprise you."

Neal held Peter's hips at the waistband of his shorts and pulled him closer. "I thought it was Elizabeth's turn."

"She's reading for book club." Peter leaned in to kiss him, sneaking his hands under Neal's pajama top, stroking up the smooth skin of his back. Neal grunted softly and widened his stance so Peter could slide a leg between his thighs, locking them together, their bodies pressed close with only Peter's shorts and Neal's slinky pajamas between them. The lazy greeting quickly gave way to quiet, frantic hunger until they were almost grappling with each other. "Jesus, Neal. Can't get enough of you."

The words were a low gasp, and Neal responded by angling Peter away from the door and shoving him toward the bed, shutting the door behind them.

 

*

 

Peter took the first shower, and by the time he came down, dressed and ready for whatever the day threw at him, El was already at the table eating breakfast. Her book was set aside, apparently finished, and she was engrossed in something on her laptop as she ate, but she pushed that away now too and raised her face for a kiss, her eyes bright with fond amusement. 

Peter pressed his lips to hers, making himself pay attention and mean it, and then sat down to pour himself some cereal.

El took the Features section for herself and handed him the rest of the paper.

"Thanks, hon." Peter settled in as if this were any other day, as if incorporating morning sex with Neal into their domestic routine were no big thing. He felt invigorated and invincible, scanning the headlines with half an eye while he waited for Neal to join them. Neal took his time—presumably that was the price of being gorgeous and immaculately turned out—but finally his footsteps sounded on the stairs. Peter looked up in anticipation and only peripherally noticed El's glancing around too and hastily closing her laptop.

The footsteps paused in the hallway, and then Neal appeared, carrying a stuffed squirrel. "Interesting decorating choice," he said. "'Morning, Elizabeth."

"'Morning, Neal. Mozzie gave it to me."

"Of course he did," said Peter. He lowered the Editorial page and frowned. "I've seen that squirrel before."

"Akihiro Tanaka's antique shop." Neal's tone had gone flat, reminding Peter of that day—the standoff with Fowler, Neal's pale fury, finding Tanaka's body and the jolt of fear that Neal would be next on the assassin's hit list, Mozzie's surgery which had seemed to go on forever.

"Right." Peter tightened his hold on his spoon, taking his cue from Neal, ready to drop everything and go to him if needed, but Neal shook off the past and when he met Peter's eye, his gaze was warm and unshadowed.

"What's past is past." Neal held up the squirrel. "And hey, you have a new addition to your household."

"I'm thinking of calling her Sophie," said El. 

Neal made a show of studying the squirrel's face. "She does have a certain Loren quality."

"You're going to keep it?" Peter asked El, disturbed.

Neal put the creature on the corner of the table. "Now that you've named her, you don't have much choice. Got any breakfast nuts?"

"Oh no," said Peter. "Not on the table."

El laughed and moved it to the sideboard, where it fixed its creepy stare on the phone. "By the way," El said to Neal, pointing to something in the Arts section of the paper, "the Marlborough Gallery is hosting a series of lectures by prominent artists, starting tomorrow night. You should take Peter to the opening."

Peter swallowed a sigh. Sometimes El could be a little too helpful. He was already going to the symphony that evening, courtesy of Neal. He missed his couch.

"No anklet," said Neal, moving to read over her shoulder. He met Peter's eye. "We could go anywhere."

"Or we could stay home," Peter pointed out, with some desperation. "I mean, far be it from me to spoil your fun, but I'm already hitting cultural overload. Why don't you two go to the lecture thing without me?"

"He wants to stay home, drink beer and watch the game," said El, giving him a sympathetic grin.

"It's not so much to ask, but—" Neal shrugged, eloquently conveying his attitude to both sports and beer. He raised his eyebrows at El. "How about it? You want to go to the Marlborough?"

"Sounds like fun." El folded the paper neatly and cleared away her breakfast things. "But right now, I have to run. I have a client meeting at nine."

Peter checked his watch. It was nearly eight. He swallowed the last of his coffee. "We've got to get going too."

As he said it, Neal's phone rang. Neal checked the display and held up his hand to quiet them as he answered. It must be their suspect. "Hi," said Neal casually. "Yeah, this is George. What time? I'll be there." He hung up, looking satisfied. "Ten-thirty at the docks," he told Peter. 

"You need breakfast?" Peter indicated the cereal and cooling toast, none of which met Neal's usual standards.

"I'll grab a bagel."

"Sure? Then let's go." Peter put his plate and cup in the dishwasher and kissed El. "See you later, hon. Have a good day."

"You too, hon." She was rummaging through the papers in her bag, sliding her laptop in to join them, but she stopped and looked past him at Neal, her expression serious. "Be careful, please."

"We will," said Peter, and Neal echoed him. 

They went to the front door, but before they left the house, Peter framed Neal's face with his hands and took the opportunity to kiss him one more time. Neal's lips were welcoming, his jaw freshly shaven, his hands confident on Peter's waist. He tasted of toothpaste, and Peter was vividly aware of the lean body beneath his tailored suit, its long muscles and flat planes so recently bared to him. It was a privilege to know these things first hand, to be able to integrate them into his knowledge of the man he loved. And it was a luxury to have this moment of privacy. Peter basked in it, indulging himself and Neal, before they broke apart and headed into the world to resume their subterfuge.


	21. Chapter 21

On the drive into the city, Neal tested his jaw with his fingertips. Pauwel's punch hadn't left much of a mark—Neal was a fast healer and rarely bruised for long—but it was still tender when he put pressure on it. To which, of course, the natural solution was to leave it alone. He dropped his hand back to his lap, focusing instead on the ghosts of far more pleasant sensations, but Peter was casting him an interrogative look, so Neal offered a distraction. "Is everything okay with Elizabeth?" 

"I thought it was." Peter raised his eyebrows. "Why? Did she say something?"

"Not a word." Neal waved Peter's concern aside. "What kind of places does she like to eat? Where won't you take her?"

"Sushi," said Peter. "Neal, what are you up to?"

Neal gave him an innocent look. "Thought we might go out after the lecture at the Marlborough. We can compare notes about you behind your back."

Peter groaned, but it was more good-natured than forbidding. Probably he was still relieved he'd been spared the ordeal by art talk. 

Neal grinned. Teasing Peter was fun, and since it was the only fun he could get away with in public, he was going to enjoy it. And tomorrow, he'd take Elizabeth out for sushi and make sure everything was all right between them. He'd detected a slight constraint at breakfast—she'd closed her laptop as soon as he appeared as if she were hiding something, and she'd avoided his eye when he suggested they go to the Marlborough together, but she had agreed to accompany him, so it was probably no big thing. Perhaps she wasn't as comfortable having him stay over as she claimed; perhaps he'd encroached upon her "turn" this morning, and Peter's trading her bed for his bothered her. If it were something like that, Neal would fix it. It wouldn't be the end of the world. 

And if last night and tonight were the only times he got to stay over, well, so far it had been worth it. He'd slept like the dead in the Burkes' guest room, waking refreshed, and the early morning had brought him Peter, their bodies moving together, Peter's hand coaxing him to orgasm, his voice low and hoarse in Neal's ear—that was the best of all possible ways to start the day.

"Drop me on Worth Street," said Neal, as they neared Federal Plaza. "I'll grab a bagel and some coffee and see you at the office."

"Okay." Peter pulled over and watched Neal unfasten his seat belt. "Love you."

"I know." A lump rose in Neal's throat, but he wasn't going to be a coward about this, and the words came more easily than he expected. "Love you too." It was the first time he'd said it since Kate. 

Peter flushed. He caught Neal's hand. "Okay."

"Sort of the definition of clingy," said Neal, managing a smile. He tried to tug his hand free, but Peter tightened his hold. "Hang in there." 

"I really want to kiss you right now," said Peter roughly. "Not just kiss you. Strip you out of that suit and—"

"Peter," Neal cut him off. "I have to get out of this car and walk away. In public."

"Right." Peter released Neal's hand with obvious reluctance. He took a deep breath. "What is it about you that makes me act like a lovestruck kid?"

"Well, you did once call me Peter Pan," said Neal, grinning. 

"I remember." Peter shook his head, his eyes warm. "Get out of here."

Neal checked his watched. It was ten to nine. "We've still got an hour and a half before my meeting on the docks. We could go back to my place."

Peter groaned in earnest this time. "Go."

 

*

 

Jones was leaning against Diana's desk when Neal arrived at the office fifteen minutes later. "Latte?" said Neal. He'd bought a quartet of coffee again, along with a breakfast muffin for himself. 

"This is the second time this week you've brought us coffee, Caffrey," said Jones, taking a cup.

Diana followed suit. "And the second time you've been late."

She and Jones exchanged covert glances, and Jones raised his eyebrows at Neal. "Any particular reason for this unprecedented largesse?"

"I'm in a good mood," said Neal with a shrug. "Thought I'd share it around. Let you guys know I'm grateful for the backup." He plucked the third and fourth cups from the tray, drank from one and held up the other. "I'd better take this upstairs before it gets cold."

"Hey, Caffrey," Diana called after him as he walked away. "Work permitting, we're going out for drinks tonight. You should join us."

Neal looked back at them, both sporting guileless expressions that nonetheless dared him to say yes. He grinned confidently. "Count me in."

He sauntered up to the mezzanine. Diana had discussed his affair with Jones, that much was obvious, but it was also plain that they were curious as colleagues, not as representatives of the law. This was ordinary, benign office gossip, the kind that greased the social wheels, and Neal didn't want to turn down the opportunity to be one of the gang. Diana had listened when he'd talked about Kate during the Jennings case, and she'd told him about Charlie. And Neal had worked with Jones for over a year through some tough times. He liked them both. If he had to keep secrets to hang out with them, well, everyone had some secrets. And hey, it wasn't as if he had anything better to do that evening: Peter had a date night with Elizabeth.

But he couldn't tell Peter that his love life was the subject of open speculation, however casual. Even if Peter had a better handle on things today, that would throw him. Better to keep it quiet, at least until after the drinks. Then he could make a full and reassuring report, proving how well he was handling their cover.

 

*

 

"Mr. Daventry. Won't you take a seat." Janzs Walters was a dowdy, distinguished man in his late fifties or early sixties, with a faint European accent Neal couldn't immediately place, and a worn suit. His single-room office on the docks was a far cry from the warehouse Neal had expected: it was simply furnished and clearly designed to be temporary, but there were still hints of style and good taste.

Neal took off his hat and sat down across the cheap oak desk from Walters.

Walters folded his hands on the desk and openly assessed him. "Mr. Daventry, I'm an attorney. I have a client who wishes to dispose of certain items. I understand you may be able to assist."

Neal sat back and crossed his legs at the knee. "That depends. What kind of items are we talking about?"

"Artworks, jewelry, historical curiosities. All of them quite genuine, I assure you." Walters straightened the few papers on the desk. "Some of them may be of interest to the authorities."

Neal twirled his hat between his fingers. "And who exactly do you work for?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. My client prefers to stay out of the limelight. That's why I'm here. You would deal solely with me, as does my client."

"I prefer to know who I'm doing business with," said Neal lazily. "How do I know this isn't a trap?"

"I assure you, I'm not associated with any branch of law enforcement, domestic or foreign. I'm just an attorney." He slid an embossed business card across the polished wooden desktop. "I am simply the means by which you can both remain anonymous. What I don't have are the connections required to place the items in question."

"And that's where I come in." 

Walters' face was a mask, but his gaze was shrewd and sharp. "Before we can embark on an ongoing relationship, I need to know more about you, Mr. Daventry."

"Call me George." The FBI had set Neal's alias up with references—other CIs who would vouch for his cover—but Neal didn't want to rush this. The longer he could draw out the deal-making process, the longer he'd be off-anklet, and he was in no hurry to resume being under the marshals' scrutiny. That would mean spending less time at Peter and Elizabeth's place. "I own an antiques import business, completely legitimate, and I know how to find homes for pieces of unknown origin. Why don't you give me a trial run?" 

"Exactly what I was thinking." Walters opened the top drawer of the desk and extracted a black velvet bag, which he passed to Neal. Neal wondered how many such interviews he'd conducted. Even taking into account the armed guard outside, he was impressively sure of himself, despite obviously being new to the criminal world. "How would you go about disposing of this, and what sort of recompense would you be able to deliver?"

Neal loosened the drawstring and tipped an Edwardian diamond necklace into his hands. He held it up to the light, appreciating the sparkle and flash of rainbows, the delicacy of the work. When Walters offered him a loupe, he accepted and studied the necklace carefully, honing in on its details. "Early twentieth century. Twelve European-cut diamonds separated by some elegant white gold filigree, and then there's the pendant. That's about one and a half carats by itself. I'd say the whole thing's worth about twenty-five thousand, give or take."

Walters smiled. "It was valued at twenty-three."

"I did say give or take," said Neal, with a grin. He liked Walters. It was a shame he couldn't introduce him to Mozzie. "If you're prepared to let me take it now, I can get you eighty percent of the valuation within two days."

Walters arched an eyebrow. "That's rather high."

"I can supply authentication documents," explained Neal. "And as this is a trial run, I'm prepared to waive my fee as a gesture of good faith."

Walters studied him for another long minute and then nodded. "You'll understand, given the circumstances, if we expect some form of collateral for the necklace."

Neal had been expecting that. "Of course," he said. "How about my watch?"

 

*

 

"Walters is just a front man," said Peter, as soon as Neal entered the van. "We need the thief."

"They're careful. It's going to take some time." Neal gave Jones the velvet bag containing the necklace and straightened his cuffs. "Anything on the audio from the watch?"

"Not yet," said Diana. "What did you find out?"

"Meeting on the docks was a misdirect," said Neal. "It implies low-rent criminals with overseas connections, but we're looking for someone local, educated, probably over forty, and old school."

"A gentleman thief," said Peter. "Is it Walters himself? Maybe the client is a front."

"I don't think so," said Neal. "Walters was too comfortable giving me his business card, and he isn't built like your typical cat burglar. I think there's a man behind the curtain." He looked at Peter. "It's a smart operation. Do we have to take them down?"

To his credit, Peter looked almost apologetic, but his words were implacable. "It's what we do."

Neal sighed. "Right."


	22. Chapter 22

"So, I was thinking," said Sandy, looking up from her computer where she was checking the Wickerton RSVPs against the guest list. "When's Neal going to visit you next? Because maybe I could set up a hidden camera and get some photos. Just for personal use, you understand." She looked mischievous, and El knew she was joking, but even in jest, the suggestion was chilling. 

"Mostly you'd get incredibly boring pictures of me and Peter watching TV with the dog," she said. "Has Kierta sent the contract back yet?"

"Right here, and it's marked urgent," said Yvonne, appearing like a guardian angel and blessing El with a change of subject. Sandy had been drooling over Neal for the last day and a half, and while she made it clear it was largely aesthetic appreciation—which El couldn't really fault her for—it was starting to grate.

Did everyone find Neal irresistible on sight? El was tempted to call Diana at the FBI to make sure that at least lesbians were immune. Or to call a security company and hire Neal a bodyguard to keep nosy admirers at bay. El herself was fully aware of Neal's appeal, but that was different from Sandy's crush: El knew Neal. She knew how smart and thoughtful and funny he could be. It was his affection for Peter and his shiny brain that made him special, not his good looks and classic physique. But she couldn't say that to Sandy—or to anyone else, for that matter. Mozzie would think she'd lost her mind if she complained about her intern's crush, or he'd assume she was projecting her own insecurity about Peter and Neal.

And maybe she was, a little. It was hard to feel completely confident when one compared oneself to Neal, and Peter was so obviously head over heels, discovering the exciting new world of gay sex in Neal's arms. But Peter loved El too, she knew that, didn't doubt it. And it wasn't a competition.

Yvonne groaned. She was skimming the final pages of the contract, and she waved it in El's face despairingly. "She's changed the Cancellation of Services clause again."

"Oh, not again." El covered her eyes. "Don't tell me—she's added three sub-clauses, half a page each."

"Just about."

"I can't deal with it right now," said El, dropping her phone into her purse. "I'm going to lunch. Kierta can wait." She stood up and pointed at Yvonne and Sandy. "Don't tell her I said that."

"We'll take it to our graves," said Sandy cheerfully. 

El stepped out into the city streets. It wasn't quite noon, so the lunch crowds hadn't hit, but there were plenty of people around—strolling, hurrying, delivering parcels by van or bicycle. Many of them were pretty or handsome, this was the city of beautiful people after all, but few of them captured one's attention so insistently. What was it about Neal that had Sandy still gushing days after a brief, platonic encounter, even when she knew he wasn't interested? Was there some con artist's trick to it, or— No, if it were a trick, Neal would be able to turn it off, and he hadn't meant to catch Sandy's eye. It must be charisma, natural-born charm. 

The kind that led to a convict being invited in for coffee and chitchat when he turned up, unknown and unannounced, on an FBI agent's wife's doorstep, she reminded herself wryly. She was no better than Sandy, just less obvious.

She turned into Canal Street on her way to her favorite diner and stopped suddenly on the pavement outside the internet cafe she'd used on Friday night, when Peter and Neal had been on their first date. She could do that again—be Audrey, and anonymously tell the world that Neal was staying with them, that it was a confusing time. _I don't know how I feel about the man who's sleeping with my husband._ The responses last time hadn't told her anything she didn't already know, but they'd been welcoming, reminding her that her and Peter's situation wasn't as unusual as it seemed. She may not have much in the way of role models for this situation, there weren't biographies she could read or specialist advice columns, but she could have a community, if she chose to reach out to them.

But Neal had found her out last time. He'd searched out her anonymous thoughts and known it was her. Sure, he'd apologized afterward, but he'd been surprised that he needed to. Which made sense: he was a con artist who worked for the FBI. Surveillance was a way of life for him. For Peter too, really. But it made her self-conscious. For all she knew, Neal was still watching the forums, keeping tabs. There was probably an app for that.

She turned away from the internet cafe and kept walking. Perhaps she could talk to a counselor instead, or a lawyer. At least they'd be bound by confidentiality.

 

*

 

She'd shaken off her mood by that afternoon, and she arrived at June's full of curiosity and pleased to be there. "My dear, I'm so glad you came," said June, clasping El's hands.

El grinned. "It's so good of you to have me. It all feels very cloak and dagger."

"That would be Mozzie's influence." June led her upstairs to a book-lined room with an imposing mahogany desk by the window. "Byron's study." 

There were three leather armchairs arranged around a paneled coffee table near the unlit fireplace, and June graciously waved El to the nearest chair and took a seat herself. On the coffee table sat a tray bearing a crystal pitcher of mimosas, clouded with condensation in the warm room, and three champagne flutes.

El sank into the chair and wriggled slightly in disbelief. "I think this is the most comfortable seat I've experienced in my life."

June chuckled. "Byron was very particular. He liked everything to be just so."

"Like Kipling," said Mozzie from the door. "Glad to see you got my message, Mrs. Suit." He took the third chair, poured a round of drinks and sent June a challenging glance. " _A Scream at Midnight_ by AB Tattersall. A tale of forbidden love, blackmail and unscrupulous murderers. Shall we commence?"

"All right." June sipped her drink thoughtfully. "Where did Rosetta go wrong?"

"Her first mistake was leaving her fingerprints at the scene of the crime," said Mozzie, leaning forward. "Who searches a murder scene without wearing gloves? That's just careless. I mean, sure, she had to find the blackmail recording, but there's a proper way to go about these things. She should have hired a professional."

"I think the first thing she did wrong was putting herself on the mob's radar in the first place," said June. "And if they hadn't caught her deceiving her editor at the newspaper, she wouldn't have opened herself up to blackmail."

El looked from June to Moz and wondered for a moment if they were hazing her, but they seemed entirely in earnest. The opinions she'd formulated on the quality of Tattersall's writing and the structure of the story died on her tongue as she caught up with their line of attack. But the mimosas were cold and sweet, and her companions were enjoying themselves.

"Obviously," said Mozzie, "but we can't all be squeaky clean. She should have invested in some basic cleaning technology. Then she would have found the bug before she incriminated herself."

"True, but we can't be watching our backs, all day, every day, either." June eyed him indulgently. "What's life without a little risk?"

"Safe," said Mozzie. "El, back me up here."

El took a breath and dived in. "If she was going to sleep with the oil company executive, she should have been smarter about it. She already suspected he owed money to the mob; she should have realized they'd be watching him."

Mozzie nodded approvingly. "And later, after the murder, she should never have gone to the police."

"She had the mob on her tail, Moz. What was she supposed to do?" El glanced at June for support, but June only grinned and shook her head. 

"Go on the run," said Mozzie, as if it were the only sensible option. "Given her background, reporting the incident to the authorities was practically turning herself in. Out of the frying pan, right into the greedy government flames."

"I do agree she should have taken some precautions before approaching the detective," said June. She refilled her glass. "I wonder if she'd have been quite so willing to risk incriminating herself if she hadn't been speaking to Detective Samson. He does seem to be a fine figure of a man."

"A tool of the Man," said Mozzie. "A bureaucratic sheep."

The discussion continued, with the three of them examining Rosetta's motivations and gradually concocting a more successful course of action she could have taken.

"Of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty," said El, when they'd triumphantly determined how their heroine could have extricated herself from the mess she was in, with what Mozzie called "satisfactory compensation for her trouble."

"That's why we have to practice now," Moz explained. "Train ourselves to circumvent circumstances and come out on top."

He was interrupted by the maid bringing in a plate of small lemon cakes and a fresh pitcher of mimosas. When she'd gone, El said, "You know, here's what I don't understand: Neal said you'd never invited him to your book club, but given the nature of your discussions, why not? He seems like a shoo-in."

Mozzie shook his head. "He'd mock our choice of literature."

"I defer to Mozzie's greater wisdom," said June, helping herself to a cake.

El took a cake too. It complemented the mimosas perfectly. She shifted in her improbably comfortable seat and looked from Mozzie to June. "So—what do you really think about Peter and Neal's relationship?"

"Ill-advised," said Mozzie promptly. "Dangerous. They're from completely different worlds. A fish can love a bird—"

June ignored him and spoke directly to El. "I think a large part of Neal's appeal is his willingness to work around the rules when it suits him," she said with a smile. "You and he seem to share that trait. And you will never catch me passing judgment on people's love affairs. No one knows what's around the corner—if you can find happiness, take it, that's my motto."

From the look in her eye, El guessed she was thinking of her late husband. "I agree."

Mozzie's disapproval softened visibly in the face of June's nostalgia. "As Benjamin Franklin said, 'The Constitution only gives people the right to pursue happiness,'" he quoted. "'You have to catch it yourself.'"


	23. Chapter 23

Peter walked into the conference room, where the rest of the team were gathered around the table, and dropped his notepad on the table. "All right, what do we know? Are we getting any audio from Neal's watch?"

"Nothing," said Diana, breaking off a conversation with Jones. "Walters must have left it in his office at the docks when he went back to his law firm."

"Damn," said Peter. "Okay, what else?"

"There are no decent-sized flat surfaces on the necklace, so we couldn't pull prints," said Jones. "Forensics is looking for traces of DNA. We should hear back from them by tomorrow."

"Has anyone reported the necklace stolen?" asked Neal. 

"Ran it through the database." Jones pursed his lips. "No hits. I've circulated a picture to NYPD, and they said they'll let us know if anyone calls it in."

"Either its absence hasn't been noticed yet, or our thief is targeting items that the owners are reluctant to report missing," said Neal. "Interesting."

Peter looked at Diana. "What else?"

"Walters' security guard is legit." Diana looked up from a file folder. "We followed him back to Aardvark Security Services—"

"Great acronym," murmured Neal.

Diana ignored him. "—and made some discreet inquiries. It was a one-off job, booked through their website. A single armed guard for one full day. Walters paid with a personal check."

Peter nodded. "Speaking of Walters, what have we got on him?"

Diana shook her head. "I ran his background. No record, not even a parking ticket. He's been in business since 1997. His law firm employs three staff, and he has a business partner, Olivia Haast. Mostly property and family law. Five months ago, he took over as a legal consultant for a charitable trust when Haast went on maternity leave, but the charity checks out. I'm still looking into his family and personal connections, but so far, we've got nothing."

"Can't exactly arrest him for doing good works," said Neal cheerfully. He was leaning back in his chair, a shade too relaxed. Peter got the impression he'd happily work this case for the next month. 

Being off-anklet was a perverse incentive. Peter was going to have to override the temptation—his own as well as Neal's—to draw the case out, and make sure they found their thief and made an arrest without delay. Anything else would be a waste of taxpayer dollars and a disservice to Hughes and the rest of the team. They simply couldn't let their relationship affect their work performance.

Peter sent Neal a warning glance, trying to convey that, and cleared his throat. "As of ten minutes ago, we have an intercept warrant to tap Walters' phone and cellphone, and Hughes has approved the money for the necklace. He wasn't happy about it. I suppose you had to make such a high offer?"

Neal shrugged, but he sat up straighter. "Had to beat out the competition."

"Speaking of which, it would be useful for our files to have some idea who else Walters interviewed, if anyone." Peter looked around the table. "Diana?"

"There's a traffic cam on the corner by the office on the docks," said Diana. "I'll get Blake to take a look at the footage for the last few days, get some faces. It's a low foot-traffic area. Shouldn't take too long. And then I'll interview the guard, see who he recognizes."

"Good," said Peter. "In the meantime, monitor Walters' phone. We need to know who he's talking to. And tomorrow, Neal, you can set up an exchange, get your watch back and see if you can persuade him to identify his client. Plus we're going to need a search warrant to take a look around his office. Maybe he's keeping papers there, something that will tell us who we're dealing with. We can't spook him—if we do, we'll jeopardize any chance of finding out who he's working for."

 

*

 

Later that afternoon, when Peter was getting ready to leave to meet El, Neal came and lounged in his doorway. The angle of his neck, the long lines of his body drew Peter's attention like a magnet. Neal smirked, and Peter tried to hide his response for the benefit of the rest of the office and tilted his head at the printout in Neal's hand. "What have you got?"

"I know who the necklace belongs to." Neal looked smug.

Peter blinked, abruptly brought back to the case. "How?"

"I have my sources," said Neal, teasing him with the mystery, but then he grinned. "I sent a picture of the necklace to Moz, and when his book club meeting adjourned, he called to say he recognized it from an auction catalog from Leslie Hindman Auctioneers in Chicago last year."

"Of course he did." Peter shook his head.

"Eidetic memory. So I got Jones to call the auction house, and after a little arm-twisting, they told him the buyer was Teddy Grissolm."

"The Monsanto guy?"

"The very one." Neal sauntered in and dropped the printout onto Peter's desk. "He just got back from a two-week jaunt to the Bahamas."

"Good work." Peter raised his eyebrows. "Do you know who our thief is, too?"

Neal's grin widened. "What's the matter, Peter? You're not enjoying the case?"

That wasn't a denial. Peter searched Neal's face. "Not if you're leading the team on an unnecessary scavenger hunt. If you already know who we're looking for, I want to know too."

Neal's expression grew serious. "I don't."

"You sure?"

"No lies, remember?" The corner of Neal's mouth curved wryly, but his tone was patient.

"Right. Sorry," said Peter, relieved Neal wasn't pissed off by his skepticism. He'd had to be sure. "Neal, even if we catch this guy before tomorrow night, you can still go to the Marlborough with El. I'll make sure of it." If it were a choice between that and Neal dragging his heels, it was by far the lesser of the two evils, and besides, Peter wanted to make Neal and El happy. 

Apparently it was the right thing to say. Neal's eyes softened. "Appreciate it."

Peter smiled fondly. "Tomorrow morning we'll go talk to Grissolm and see what we can dig up. Right now I have to go and meet El for an evening of cultural enlightenment."

"Have fun." Neal lowered his voice. "I'll see you later at your place?"

"Yeah." Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, make yourself at home. Whatever's in the fridge is fair game. And if you want to take Satchmo out, his leash is on the hook by the backdoor."

"Relax, Peter," said Neal, looking like he was following his own advice. "I'm going out for drinks with Diana and Jones before I head back to Brooklyn. I probably won't be home long before you."

"Drinks, huh?" Peter reminded himself that if anyone could guard a secret, it was Neal. And no one could say he wasn't motivated. "You need a house key?"

Neal gave him a slightly affronted look. 

"Right," said Peter, shaking his head. It was probably a bad sign that his main response to the implicit reminder of Neal's B&E skills was to find them hot. "See you later."

 

*

 

El was waiting by the car when Peter arrived only a few minutes late. He was steeled for an evening of classical music and determined to put a brave face on it and enjoy being with her, whatever the setting, but she was wearing jeans and a blue sweater, and her hair was curling loose around her shoulders, which was a lot more casual than Peter had been expecting. She was also brimful of suppressed mischief. Peter couldn't help smiling at her, despite his misgivings about the scheduled entertainment.

"Hey, hon," she said, reaching up to kiss him. Her lips tasted sweet like oranges, and he thought she might be slightly drunk.

He raised his eyebrows. "Hey, hon. What are you up to?"

"Lateral problem solving. Is it that obvious?" 

"Usually the symphony is an excuse to dress up. Not that I don't appreciate the jeans and sweater look."

"Usually." She looked like she was holding back laughter. "But I've just been schooled in thinking outside the box." She took some slips of paper from her purse and put her hands behind her back. "Pick a hand."

Peter touched her right arm. 

El tucked whatever was in her left hand into her back pocket and with her right hand she produced the symphony tickets—which she held up to show him. "Two tickets to an evening of Bartok."

"Yeah." Peter squared his shoulders. "So we should get going."

"Nuh-uh." With a dramatic flourish, El tore the tickets in half and then quarters and folded the pieces into his waiting hand.

"El?" Peter stared at her, confused and concerned. "What are you doing?"

"You picked the wrong hand," said El, as if that were any kind of explanation. "If you'd picked my left, you'd have got these." From her back left pocket, she brought out two more tickets. These ones, she gave to Peter whole and undefiled.

They were for Yankee Stadium. "What—" Peter looked from the tickets to El's beaming face and back to the tickets. "But—but you wanted to go to the symphony. We had tickets. Neal bought us tickets."

"He bought _me_ tickets," said El. "An evening of Bartok? You'd have sat there shuffling your feet and wishing it was over. This, we can both enjoy."

Peter looked down into her face. Her excitement was breathtaking. "Are you sure?"

It was a pointless question. She'd destroyed the symphony tickets; even if she had second thoughts now, it was too late. But she looked confident and happy, no hint of doubt.

"You and Neal have had a lot of excitement lately," she said. "And that's good. But now I want to have some fun with you. Show you a good time."

"You do," said Peter, moved. How had he ever got so lucky? He hugged her right there on the sidewalk. "Thank you."

She kissed him, smiling against his lips, then pulled back and took his hand. Her eyes were shining. "Come on. We'd better get moving if we're going to get hotdogs before the game starts."


	24. Chapter 24

"No Christie this evening?" Neal followed Diana and Jones to one of the empty booths on the side wall of the bar. It was a fairly pedestrian place not far from the office, all polished concrete floors and classic rock music. They'd come here a couple of times before when celebrating big wins, but that had been the whole team, junior agents and everyone. Peter, too. Tonight it was less crowded and the noise level was more contained, but the clientele still consisted primarily of government workers in their Brooks Brothers suits, many of them with briefcases propped against the legs of their chairs.

Diana put her glass of Chardonnay on the table and preceded Jones into the booth. "Christie's working nightshifts this week. Why?"

"Just curious." Neal sat across from her. "I can't believe we've been working together all this time and you still haven't introduced us." It was a sly, pre-emptive reminder that Neal wasn't the only one keeping his personal life and his work life separate.

Diana rolled her eyes and turned to Jones. "Speaking of introducing people, how was your date the other night?"

"It wasn't a date, it was coffee." Jones looked self-conscious. "I mean, I went to see her in The Mikado, and we went out for coffee afterward."

"Yum yum," murmured Neal under his breath, and grinned when Jones tried to quell him with a look. Neal was pretty sure he was only getting this insight into Jones' dating experience so he'd have to cough up a quid pro quo, and if that were the case, he was under no obligation to be politely supportive. It was a relief, really, to have the others strategize so blatantly, a reminder that deception was a universal game, nothing to feel bad about.

"What was her role?" Diana was womanfully trying to keep the conversation on track without teasing Jones. "Was she good?"

"She was in the chorus, but the show was pretty polished, actually. Better than the HMS Pinafore production I went to a couple of years ago where everyone was wearing animal masks."

"I didn't know you were a Gilbert and Sullivan fan," said Neal, purposefully directing the conversation away from dating. "You ever perform?"

"Me? Not a chance. I can't sing," said Jones. "I helped out with lighting sometimes in college."

"Behind the scenes. Why am I not surprised?"

"Not everyone's desperate for the limelight," said Diana pointedly. "So, Jones, is that how you met her? What's her name?"

"Leone," said Jones. "She's a friend of a friend. We met at an engagement party." Jones picked up his beer glass with an air of finality and eyed Neal. "How about you, Caffrey? You seeing anyone?"

The bluntness of the question might have thrown Neal if he hadn't seen it coming a mile off. As it was, he shrugged and assumed an air of regret. "It's not as easy for an ex-con to get a date as you'd think. Either my past occupation makes women gun-shy or my present one does."

Diana raised her eyebrows. "And you can't talk them around with your infamous charm?"

"You think I'm charming?" Neal showed her a broad smile. 

Diana snorted. "You know what I mean."

"It's not just my past. There's also the hardware. Most people are understandably reluctant to have their movements monitored by Big Brother, even if it's by proxy," Neal told her. "It's a little too George Orwell—kills the romance."

"Even with Sara Ellis?" said Jones.

"To my eternal regret, even with Sara Ellis." Neal wondered if they'd taken bets on the identity of his paramour, and if so, who else was on the list. Whether they were all women. Peter wouldn't be a contender: married, respectable, seemingly straight. No one thought Neal had a chance with him, and despite the cost to his pride, Neal needed to keep it that way. 

It was enough to know Peter loved him; he didn't need to shout it from the rooftops.

Diana's gaze narrowed, perceptive and unimpressed with Neal's reasoning, apparently fully aware that he hadn't denied anything outright. She was a lot like Peter that way. "So you aren't seeing anyone?" 

"I'm open to the possibility," said Neal. He drank a mouthful of his mid-range Cab Sav. "Why? Are you offering to set me up?"

Jones snickered, and Diana said, "No," and changed the subject to the annoying new protocols for the surveillance van, and then her and Christie's weekend plans. 

Neal allowed himself to let his guard down and join in. His slippery responses had confirmed Diana's suspicion, but she and Jones couldn't keep asking about it without being rude or admitting Diana had checked his tracking data. Neal was home clear.

 

*

 

He stopped off for a steak sandwich and arrived back at the Burkes' around nine. In theory, maybe he should have gone home to Junes'. It was Peter and Elizabeth's date night, and date night meant no Neal. But technically he was still staying with them and Peter had said see you later; even if Neal couldn't be alone with him tonight, and he probably couldn't, there was the chance of a few shared moments to touch base away from the office—and there was always the next morning. Anyway, the anklet was off and Neal was making the best of it.

Peter and Elizabeth weren't home yet, but it took less than thirty seconds to let himself into the house—Neal would have to have words with Peter about that—where Satchmo was milling around just inside the door. 

"Hey, boy."

Satchmo wagged his tail furiously and tried to trip him up. Neal patted him briefly before going to get a glass of water, pausing to say hi to Sophie the Squirrel on the way. He briefly considered introducing Sophie and Satchmo, but one or both of them would undoubtedly emerge worse off from the encounter, so instead he went through the Burkes' Monopoly set one-handed while he drank his water and dug out the hat token and a Get Out of Jail Free card. He carefully balanced the hat on Sophie's head and propped the card on her outstretched paws.

Then he stood in the center of the living room and got his bearings. Though it was the first time he'd been alone in the house, they'd made him welcome often enough that it felt comfortable and natural. He could settle in to watch TV or something equally domestic, and Peter and Elizabeth would probably take his presence in stride when they returned. On the other hand, he should probably give them some couple time after the upheaval of the last week. But he wasn't ready to retire to bed yet either.

Mindful of Peter's instructions, Neal collected Satchmo's leash from the hook by the door and a plastic bag, and he took Satchmo out into the night. It was misty with distinct halos around the streetlights, and Neal didn't want to go far, but he couldn't help relishing the freedom of being off the marshals' radar. No one knew where he was, no one was watching.

A couple of living-rooms went dark in the street ahead, and seconds later, the houses' upstairs lights blinked on. The neighborhood was getting ready for bed. Even Satchmo didn't seem in an adventurous mood. Neal would go around the block and then turn in for the night himself. That would give Peter and Elizabeth the opportunity to be alone. Neal didn't want to risk crowding them. 

He wondered if they were enjoying their evening. He'd bought the symphony tickets with Elizabeth in mind and to tease Peter, but in retrospect he felt sorry for making Peter sit through an evening of Hungarian folk tunes. Neal would have to make it up to him—he had plenty of ideas how to go about that.

Then his phone rang. 

"Hey, where are you?" said Peter in his ear. "Can you talk?"

"I'm walking Satchmo. Where are you?" 

It sounded like a crowded subway station, and Peter was speaking quickly, his voice pitched over the background hubbub. Neal guessed he was snatching a window of opportunity to make the call behind Elizabeth's back. "I'll explain later. I need your help." 

Neal's pulse quickened. "Anything. You know that." He spoke loudly so Peter could hear, and his voice rang out across the street, so he stepped into the recessed doorway of a nearby drycleaner that was closed for the night. Satchmo followed him willingly, sniffing his way around the doorstep.

"I want to do something romantic for El. In the closet under the stairs, there's—"

"What kind of romantic?" interrupted Neal, but Peter either didn't hear or talked over him.

"—a champagne bucket, and I'm pretty sure there's a bottle of something in the fridge or the cupboard by the fridge." Peter stopped. "There are kinds of romantic?"

The faint note of panic in his voice was pure Peter. Neal grinned, wishing he could see his face. "Calm down. I just meant is this an apology, or—"

"No, no, nothing like that."

Neal let out a covert breath of relief.

"I just want to show her how much she means to me," said Peter.

"Leave it to me," said Neal. "One romantic evening coming up."

"Thanks," said Peter. "But don't get carried away, Casanova. Remember who—Gotta go." The line cut off with a beep.

"Romance lite," Neal conceded to his silent phone, but he already knew he couldn't stop at just champagne. Elizabeth deserved more than that.

Satchmo interrupted his ruminations by lifting his leg against the dry cleaner's front door.

"Seriously?" Neal told him. "Don't."

 

*

 

The closet under the stairs was a treasure trove, and having essentially been given permission to snoop, if Neal had had more time he could easily have spent an entire evening or longer reading Peter and Elizabeth's pasts in sports paraphernalia, photo albums, old letters, stored tchotchkes and garish home-knit sweaters, and a neat stack of Penthouse and Sports Illustrated magazines. He was going to have to tease Peter about the magazines, but not tonight. Tonight was about Elizabeth.

He found the champagne bucket upended over the points of two pairs of skis, put everything else back in its proper place and went to see whether they had any ice.


	25. Chapter 25

El was still pumped from the game and the crowd when they parked outside the townhouse. It had been the right choice—Peter had got that bright-eyed, little-kid look the moment he'd seen the Yankees tickets, and El's spirits had risen to meet his. She enjoyed baseball anyway, but this had been extra special, like playing hookey together. "Good evening?"

Peter gave her that warm, private smile she knew so well, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Best evening."

"Me too." She leaned across the car to kiss him, and he cupped the nape of her neck and kissed her back, heating things up. Playing hookey and making out in cars. Maybe she was regressing to her teenage years. She grinned at the thought and pulled away to unfasten her seatbelt. Cars were fine for making out, but she wasn't eighteen anymore; beds were better. "Let's take this upstairs."

But Peter stopped her before she could open the door. He cleared his throat. "Uh, hon?"

"Mmm?" The engine was ticking as it cooled, and Peter looked suddenly uncertain.

"I know you said Neal was welcome here except for date nights, but he—"

"He's staying here while he's out of the anklet," said El, filling in the blanks. "I know." She had been clear about her boundaries at the outset, and it was important Peter and Neal respected her needs. But they were caught in each other's orbit still—it wasn't surprising the agreement for Neal to temporarily move in had overridden their earlier discussions, and if being alone with Peter tonight had been important to her, she would have checked. "It's fine. But next time, maybe we can talk about it? I'd like to have you to myself now and then."

"I know. You will," Peter assured her hastily. "I didn't mean to break the rules—I didn't think."

"Hey, I understand," said El softly. "It's complicated negotiating space and time when the other person's staying over, especially in the beginning." If she'd learned anything from the internet forums, it was that. "And I like Neal. I like having him around. I just happen to like you more." Peter looked about to heap gratitude upon her again, and she grinned in amusement. "I mean, it's moving faster than I thought it would. I didn't expect us all to have shacked up within a week. But we are talking about Neal, so I probably should have seen that coming." She opened the car door and glanced back at Peter. "Come on, let's go in and say hi to your boyfriend."

But when they got inside, the lights were low, Satch was asleep on his mat, and there was no immediate evidence that Neal was home except that Sophie the Squirrel had moved to the bookcase near the door, and she was wearing a little metal top hat and holding a Get Out of Jail Free card to which Neal—it had to be Neal—had added a question mark so perfect it could have been printed on. El laughed. It was certainly a novel way to apologize for bending the rules.

"What?" Peter peered over her shoulder.

"Some things never change," said El. "I tried to put up a Get Out of Jail Free card as a stake in a poker game a long time ago, and Neal said only if you'd back it. That's when I bet the kiss from you instead."

"Have I thanked you for that, by the way?" Peter looked past her to the stairs, and his smile faded. El followed his gaze. There was an artfully casual trail of yellow roses, probably from the bouquet Neal had sent on Saturday morning, leading up the stairs. "I told him not to get carried away," Peter muttered.

"What is this?" El raised her eyebrows, wondering exactly what awaited her upstairs.

"I wanted to do something romantic for you, so I asked Neal to leave out a bottle of champagne," said Peter wryly exasperated. "Of course he had to go one better."

"Aww. You're adorable." El grinned up at her husband, hiding her relief. Neal wasn't trying to impinge on her date night; he was contributing from a respectful distance, like when she'd picked out Peter's tie and sent music for his and Neal's first date. "I'm not sure I need any more champagne though, after book club mimosas and stadium beer."

"Whatever you want," said Peter.

El gathered the flowers as they climbed the stairs, a hint of rose perfume in her nostrils. When they neared the landing, she heard music. The door to the guest room was closed with a sliver of light escaping through the crack at the bottom, but the music was coming from the master bedroom and that was where the trail of roses led. El left the last of them where they lay and went to the doorway. "Oh."

The room was bathed in soft candlelight from clusters of strategically placed candles. The music, quiet but easily identifiable, was one of the same Latin tracks she'd sent with Peter for him and Neal to dance to, and by the bed sat their old champagne bucket on a chair, filled with ice and a bottle of Bollinger that Neal must have bought somewhere because it certainly hadn't been in her fridge.

They were simple touches, but the overall effect was magical. Even Peter looked more moved than chagrined when he saw the scene. "Wow." He looked at her. "Hon?"

"It's beautiful. Dance with me?"

He moved unhesitatingly to take her in his arms, and as they danced, the familiar steps brought back memories of salsa class, Peter's initial discomfort and how he'd eventually found his feet, trusting her enough to relax, willing to take a risk because she'd asked it of him, and finally starting to enjoy himself. El drifted closer and leaned her head on his shoulder, reveling in their closeness, their years of history together, and this strange evening that had taken them from hotdogs and crowds of cheering New Yorkers to this quiet, intimate moment. Neal was a part of it too. She was acutely aware of him in the room down the hall, and she was pleased with him for backing off and letting her and Peter have this time alone. 

A glow kindled in her chest, like a reflection of the candlelight around them. 

Peter's hand slid lower, pulling her close, and she moaned under her breath and raised her face to him, her lips parted in anticipation.

"Wait," he said, and went to close the door. When he came back, he murmured, "Happy date night," and bent to kiss her. His lips moved on hers, hot and eager, and she melted against him, feeling special and loved, as if they were at the center of the universe, everything else spinning around them.

They undressed slowly, pulled back the bedclothes and made love. Peter ran his hands all over her, obviously relishing her curves, and moved inside her until she was feverish and desperate, clutching his shoulders and grinding up against him, seeking and finding pressure exactly where she needed it. 

There was a faint mark on his chest above his right nipple that could be nothing or could have been a remnant of his time with Neal. El ran her fingers over it, accepting it as part of who he was now, her husband who loved someone else too, his body no longer solely her territory. As long as he still wanted to be with her, as long as they could enjoy each other's company as they had this evening, as partners and lovers, she was okay. And it was exciting to think of him with Neal, of their bodies together. For a moment, El let herself imagine she _was_ Neal, that it was his back Peter was stroking with such passion, his mouth Peter was kissing, their stubble rasping slightly, his body Peter was fucking. 

The fantasy sent a twist of heat through her, and she swore, but when she opened her eyes, she was glad to find Peter watching her, that he knew who he was with. All the pleasure and delicious tension inside her tightened and focused, and she came like a long, deep roll of thunder, shaking, gasping, trying not to cry out too loud because Neal was just down the hall. Peter followed soon after, his face slack and blurred with desire in the candlelight as his thrusts grew staccato and uneven and he pulsed inside her.

They lay there wordlessly, catching their breath, and El's body hummed with satisfaction. "We should blow out the candles," she said, too comfortable to move but unable to ignore her commonsense. "Or I'm going to fall asleep and either the house will burn down or we'll end up with puddles of wax all over the bedroom."

"I have to brush my teeth," said Peter, but he didn't move either. 

El stretched against him. "Do we need to take Satch out?"

"Neal walked him. He should be fine." Peter sounded half-asleep. 

El got up on one elbow and grinned down at him. "Is there a psychic link I should know about?"

"I called while you were in the restroom at the stadium. Champagne, remember?"

"Which we didn't drink," said El, sitting up further to see into the champagne bucket. The ice had mostly melted. "We'll have to save it for a special occasion." She leaned over and blew out the cluster of candles on the nightstand, then reached for her robe. 

Peter got up and went to extinguish the ones on the dresser.

"Don't forget to make a wish," said El.

When she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, the crack under the guest room door was dark.

 

*

 

The next morning, she woke early and lay in bed listening to the sounds of Peter's even breathing and rain against the windows. Happiness bubbled up inside her, the same reckless elation she'd felt the previous evening when she'd torn up the symphony tickets—and that had turned out perfectly. She took her phone from the nightstand and tapped out a text to Neal: _It's not date night anymore. Want to come and wake Peter with a kiss?_

She stared at the words for a moment, checking to make sure she really wanted to invite him into her and Peter's bedroom, but it didn't seem that big a step after the last few days, more a formality than a frontier. Neal was part of their family now, and they should take advantage of his presence while he could still stay over. And Peter was lying on his back, fast asleep, every inch the sleeping beauty. El hooked the strap of her nightgown back onto her shoulder, smoothed her hair and pressed Send.

A minute later the door opened, whispering against the carpet, and Neal silently padded in. He was barefoot, wearing a dark green robe over navy silk pajamas, and his hair was adorably mussed. Without the suit and tie and the careful grooming, he seemed younger.

El smiled a greeting and held a finger to her lips before he could say anything. He grinned back, his eyebrows quirking, and went to Peter's side of the bed, where he stood looking down, obviously admiring the view. He probably hadn't had a chance to watch Peter sleep before, see his face in repose, the lines smoothed away. El was glad to be able to give him that and to give this to Peter too.

Neal settled carefully on the edge of the bed at Peter's side, tilting the mattress slightly, and before the shift could disturb Peter, he planted one hand on the bed by Peter's shoulder, bent forward and pressed his mouth lightly to Peter's.

El had a front row view. She saw the faint flush on Neal's cheeks—maybe at being near to Peter, maybe because he knew she was watching—and the twitch of Peter's lips. She saw Peter's transition from a sound sleep through momentary confusion to recognition, and the desire that followed. Peter parted his lips to Neal and the kiss deepened, and El couldn't look away. She wasn't sure exactly what she was feeling or what she wanted to happen next; she only knew that the two of them were mesmerizing. Peter freed his hand from the bedclothes so he could clasp Neal's neck, draw him further down, but Neal inhaled deeply and resisted, pulling back slightly. "Hey." He swallowed audibly.

"'Morning." Peter's voice was a low, sexy rumble. Then he blinked and seemed to get his bearings, remembering where he was. He looked sideways and found El watching. "Uh, hey, El."

El grinned at his confusion and reached for his hand under the covers. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

Peter looked to Neal again. "Should you be—"

"I invited him," said El, forestalling the question. "Come on, move over and make room." She shuffled toward the edge of the mattress, and Peter followed after her to the middle, and after a moment's hesitation, Neal shed his robe and slid between the covers. It was a little crowded—cozy, thought El, rolling onto her side to face Peter, arranging his arm around her so she could rest her head on his shoulder—and a lot weird to have a third person in their bed, but the confused delight on Peter's face and Neal's obvious pleasure at being there made it more than worth it.

Neal was up on one elbow—keeping both hands where El could see them, she noted with amusement. "How was the symphony?"

"It was great," said Peter, too quickly.

Neal's gaze narrowed. "You didn't go, did you?"

"It's that obvious?" Peter sounded more curious than apologetic.

Neal shook his head. "You said an evening of Bartok was 'great.' And wherever you called me from last night, it wasn't the symphony. Where did you go?"

"I took him to a ballgame," said El, with a shameless grin. "I appreciate the thought behind the symphony tickets, but I figure I can get my dose of culture tonight at the Marlborough."

"A ballgame?"

"At Yankee Stadium," said Peter, smugly.

"I'm practicing applied lateral thinking," El told them both.

"And apparently I'm reaping the benefits," said Neal, indicating their present situation. "Thank you."

"It's not exactly a terrible sacrifice," El told him. She was tempted to say he could repay her right now by kissing Peter again and letting her watch, but she wasn't sure how either of them would react to that, whether they'd feel objectified or uncomfortable. Moz had already accused her of using Neal as a sex toy. And besides, given the incendiary nature of their last kiss, they might get carried away. She didn't want to be stuck in the role of stopping them, but she also drew the line at her husband and his boyfriend having sex in her bed in front of her or ousting her so they could get it on in private. Safer not to start down that road at all, so she just sent Neal a warm, friendly smile and enjoyed the moment, laughing as he teased Peter about his aversion to the arts. Peter played along, dismissing modern art and classical music out of hand to bait him, until eventually El had no choice but to rise to her husband's defense.


	26. Chapter 26

Lying in bed between El and Neal, being gently mocked and defended by turns and carefully dividing his attention between the two of them, made for a slow, lazy start to the day. It was nearly eight before Peter knew it. He grabbed a piece of toast and a quick cup of coffee with El while Neal took a shower, and Neal eschewed breakfast altogether, but even so, after a hasty embrace just inside the front door, they left the house later than intended. At least by then it had stopped raining. 

The traffic was heavy and sluggish, and Peter felt vaguely stoned. He was riding the high of a new relationship and having far more sex than he was used to—he and El usually did it once or twice a week—and much as he was grateful for recent developments and glad to be with Neal, much as he appreciated El's support and enjoyed spending time with her, the combined effort of managing both relationships and keeping one of them hidden at work was taking its toll. He wouldn't admit it to either El or Neal, but he was eagerly anticipating a quiet night on the couch tonight while they went out to listen to experts ramble about esoteric art theory. 

His life had changed irrevocably, and alone time was a luxury now. If he could go back—He glanced across the car. No, never. "How was your evening? Did Diana bring out the interrogation lights?"

"Just about." Neal's face lit with amusement. "Did you know Jones is seeing a woman in a Gilbert and Sullivan company?"

"I can't say it's come up." Peter didn't know the first thing about Jones' love life. 

"It did last night." Neal stretched his legs out and yawned. "I suppose he is the very model of a modern major general."

Peter snorted. "Don't let him hear you say that. He only made lieutenant." He sent Neal a concerned look.

"Don't look so worried," said Neal. "Everything went according to plan. I confirmed their suspicion that I'm seeing someone without admitting anything. Actually, I think they're running a sweepstake about who the lucky lady is—"

"Lady?"

"People have no imagination. And I'd bet you anything your name isn't on the list. Everyone knows you're happily married. Relax."

"Everyone's always telling me to relax," said Peter, rolling his eyes. "Someone has to worry."

Neal smirked. "I don't see why."

"And that's why it isn't you." The traffic lights ahead turned red, and a ragged row of tail lights lit up in response. Peter slowed with them. "So who's on this list?"

Neal shrugged. "Couldn't say. Hey, you should ask Diana if you can place a bet. Sneak a peek."

Peter shook his head, laughing despite himself. Neal was impossible, but his unfailing self-confidence was a comforting counterweight to Peter's tendency to expect the worst. They were good together. It felt natural to have deepened their partnership. No, Peter wouldn't go back, not for anything. He was loved by two of the most gorgeous, smartest people he'd ever met. He might just be the luckiest sonuvabitch in New York City.

And it helped tremendously that El and Neal liked and respected each other so much. Without that, he'd be sinking, not swimming. 

"Seems like Elizabeth enjoyed Mozzie's book club," said Neal, as if he were reading Peter's mind.

"Apparently it was transformative," said Peter drily. Amid all this change his marriage of eleven years should be an anchor, the one point of stability he could count on in this confusing new landscape, but El was changing too—pushing boundaries and testing herself and him, getting that headstrong, mischievous expression that reminded him of Neal. It was obvious she found it exhilarating, and it would be the height of selfishness and ingratitude to object in any way. Peter wouldn't dream of that. But in the privacy of his thoughts, he was prepared to admit it was unnerving. Everything was in a state of flux. And everyone kept telling him to relax.

 

*

 

"Hey, boss." Diana came to stand next to him at the coffee machine, her cup dangling from her finger. "How's it going?"

"Good," said Peter, quelling the impulse to tell her a sanitized version of the truth—he'd only trip himself up—or worse, to ask if his name was in their Who's Dating Neal? sweepstake. "Conference room in five minutes."

It was too brisk, and from the way her gaze narrowed on him, she knew it too, but it was the best he could do. He went up to his office and closed the door. 

He should prepare for the meeting, gather together the information that had come in overnight. Instead he looked down at Neal, who was eating a muffin at his desk and drinking coffee from the cart outside. He seemed perfectly content and exchanged greetings with Jones as Jones passed by, but there was something wrong with the picture.

Peter called June and asked her where she bought her Italian roast. He wasn't going to start providing home-baked French pastries like June's cook did, but there had to be a middle ground. Neal was staying with them, and Peter wanted them all to have breakfast together. Getting his hands on some of Neal's favorite coffee was a start.

 

*

 

"Anything on Walters' phones?" asked Peter, walking into the conference room.

Diana and Neal were sitting at the table, Diana frowning, Neal seemingly untroubled. "—probably nothing," Neal was saying. Their conversation stopped abruptly on Peter's arrival. Interrupted. They'd been talking about him. Diana's frown smoothed out, but her gaze was watchful. Neal somehow managed to signal reassurance with his eyebrows. 

Peter took a deep breath and focused on work. "Phones?" he repeated, telling himself with full awareness of the irony to relax.

"Nothing," said Diana. "Just clients of Walters' law firm, and we can't listen in on those calls."

"He's being careful," said Neal. "Maybe using a burner to talk to his accomplice."

"Or his accomplice is a client," said Peter. "Where are we with getting a copy of their client list?"

"Court order just came through," said Jones, hurrying into the room with a fax. "But we can't execute it without tipping Walters off."

Peter nodded. "Okay, hold off on that. We'll follow up our other leads first. Neal and I are going to talk to Teddy Grissolm, the owner of the diamond necklace."

"The Monsanto guy?" Diana grimaced.

"That's the one. Look for connections between Grissolm and Walters," Peter told her and Jones. "That's currently our best chance of finding Walters' accomplice."

"On it," said Jones. 

 

*

 

"What did you say to Diana?" asked Neal as the elevator took them up to Grissolm's midtown penthouse apartment.

"Nothing," said Peter. "I said I was fine."

"That's not what she heard." Neal stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Nothing to worry about. Just pick a neutral topic—work or something else, it doesn't matter—and have a normal conversation with her, let her know you're okay."

"I'll do that." Peter sighed.

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival, and the doors started to open.

"It'll get easier," said Neal. "I promise. You'll get used to it. In a couple of weeks, you won't even have to think about it anymore. Hang in there."

"I know, I know," said Peter. "Relax."

Teddy Grissolm was expecting them. He answered the door, bluff and loud. His thinning grey hair was cropped short, and he wore a suit that made Neal's look cheap. He was carrying a briefcase and had his car keys in his hand. "FBI, right? About time," he said irritably. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes. What do you want?"

"We're investigating the theft of this necklace," said Peter, showing Teddy a photograph. "We understand you purchased it in a Chicago auction last year."

Teddy glanced at the photo and scowled. "Waste of money," he said. "My bitch of an ex-wife got it in the divorce. Just about the only thing she did get, though. Still more than she deserved."

"Good for you. Do you mind if we come in?" said Neal, whose attention had been caught by something in the entranceway behind Teddy.

"No point." Teddy stood his ground, blocking their path. "Like I said, the bitch tried to take me to the cleaners. She wanted half, can you believe it? But I'm not an idiot. My lawyers took good care of me. Always do. Just got back from my third honeymoon, you know? In the Bahamas. You ever been to the Bahamas?"

"No," said Peter. Neal was still looking past him, so Peter moved casually to the side, encouraging Teddy to angle his body, giving Neal a better view.

"Fucking incredible," said Teddy. "The girls are out of this world, if you know what I mean."

"I'm sure they are," said Peter, not bothering to hide his distaste. "Can you tell us how to contact your ex-wife? We need to discuss the stolen necklace."

"Stolen necklace." Teddy scowled again, and his hand clenched around his car keys. "Fucking Harriet. Sure, I can give you her address. 97 Ice Palace Road, Bitchtown." He took his phone from his pocket and stabbed the screen a few times, then read off a real address.

Peter glanced at Neal, who nodded. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Grissolm," said Peter, relieved the interview was over. 

"The rich and powerful," said Neal, once they were safely back in the elevator. "Always so charming."

"Let's hope the ex-wife is easier to deal with," said Peter, wryly. "What was so interesting in Grissolm's apartment?"

"It was what wasn't in his apartment." Neal was wearing the smug look that meant he'd noticed something Peter hadn't. "Either Teddy Grissolm's place was recently cleaned out, or Harriet got a lot more in the divorce than he admitted."

"What are you talking about?"

"Empty display shelf, a couple of picture hooks." Neal tilted his head. "There was a profile on him in Forbes a few months ago, full photo spread, remember? He had a Rothko and a Pollock, and that was just the beginning."

"You remember that?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

"I take note of the locations of valuable works of art." Neal gave a tiny shrug, radiating innocence. "It's an occupational hazard."

"Which occupation?" muttered Peter, and moved on without waiting for an answer. "So Harriet Grissolm got the best of Teddy in the divorce after all. Can't wait to meet her."


	27. Chapter 27

Neal was happy. He was on a case with Peter, and his habitual show of self-confidence was more genuine than usual, bolstered by the certainty of loving and being loved. It had been a long time—since before prison, before Kate had left him that first time—since he'd been so sure of anyone, and it was incredible what a difference it made. He looked out at the city slipping past and curled his hand in his lap, conscious of Peter beside him. His pulse quickened in anticipation as he tried to calculate when they would next be alone together in private, off the clock. Probably not tonight, but maybe tomorrow morning. And tomorrow was Friday, heralding the weekend. Would Elizabeth be as generous with Peter this weekend as last? 

Perhaps tonight over dinner she and Neal could discuss the parameters of their sharing, what she was comfortable with, how much of Peter's time Neal could safely monopolize. What the future looked like. It was too soon to have that conversation with Peter, he was still too worried about their being found out to look forward with optimism, but Elizabeth understood the value of ground rules, of knowing what was possible, how much Neal was allowed to hope for. 

And she'd already given so much, Neal didn't want to make wrong assumptions and trip them all up. Peter and Elizabeth's marriage was the foundation of everything else. But Neal wasn't going to hold back, either—he was greedy for Peter's time and attention; he craved his hands and his body, his smile, the low murmur of his voice and the things he said when they were alone. The way he touched Neal as if they belonged together. It had been less than a week, and they'd already tried things Neal hadn't done in years. Neal averted his mind from the past before tainted memories could ruin his mood and sent Peter a quick glance.

Peter's eyes were on the road, but his mouth was soft, curving up at the corners. He was as pleased with the way things were going as Neal was. His hands moved on the wheel, and Neal watched them, vividly recalling the feel of those blunt fingers digging into his muscles as the two of them moved together, their bodies heavy with desire, slick with sweat. He shifted in his seat, tempted to lead Peter astray, to lure him to Neal's place so they could reenact that moment, a quick interlude. Neal was out of his anklet, no one need know. But they were in the middle of a case. Peter wouldn't agree or, worse, he would and then Neal would have to be the voice of duty and restraint. One of them had to be responsible; if their relationship negatively affected their work, there was no saying what restrictions Peter would put in place. And Neal was in this for the long haul; he was going to play it smart, not ruin it with impulsive acts of instant gratification.

For now, he contented himself with the knowledge that sometime soon there'd be a real opportunity to be alone, and he forced his mind back to the case. "After we've interviewed Harriet, I'll call Walters and arrange a meet."

"Yeah." Peter sounded a little hoarse, and uttering the single syllable caused him to clear his throat. Neal suspected they'd been entertaining similar thoughts.

"Eyes on the road, mind on the work," he said, only partly teasing. 

Peter snorted softly. "Don't tell me you're thinking about the case. I know you—you're figuring out how you'd go about scamming Teddy Grissolm out of his millions."

Peter sounded indulgent, almost proud, so Neal shrugged nonchalantly, neither confirming nor denying the assumption. In fact, one of the beauties of working with the FBI in this instance was that he didn't have to scam Grissolm. The man was such a creep that under normal circumstances, back in the day, Neal might have felt honor bound to relieve him of his remaining wealth, but a scam would have meant spending far longer in Grissolm's company than Neal wanted to, schmoozing and earning his trust. Whereas, since Grissolm's connection to the diamond necklace was only tangential, Neal would never have to see him again. Score one for the Bureau.

 

*

 

As soon as they pulled up outside Harriet Grissolm's brownstone, Neal suspected she hadn't triumphed over Teddy in the divorce after all. The building was respectable and tidy, but compared to Teddy's penthouse, it was modest to put it politely. Harriet herself was a tall, nervous woman about the same age as her ex-husband, with carefully styled blonde curls and an English accent. She was wearing last season's fashions. 

"Agent Peter Burke," said Peter, flashing his badge. "This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."

"You're with the FBI?" Harriet let them in and waved them toward a small living room. She folded her arms, wrapping her cashmere cardigan tight around her. "Is something wrong?"

"We're here about a diamond necklace." Peter showed her the photo while Neal checked out the decor. The furniture was new from Ikea, and there were a few boxes in the corner as if she hadn't finished unpacking. If Teddy had only just returned from his honeymoon, he certainly hadn't spent long between wives.

A couple O'Keefe prints hung on the walls along with a grouping of framed photos, a couple of which had neat rectangles cut out of them, presumably where Teddy had been. No love lost on Harriet's part either, then. There were a few interesting vases on the bookshelf, and an antique silver clock on the mantel, but all in all, it was slim pickings. No self-respecting opportunistic thief would bother turning the place over. The necklace had to have been targeted.

Harriet glanced from the photo to Peter's face. "But that's my necklace," she said. "I lost it when I moved. I was sure it would turn up eventually. I still haven't unpacked all my things."

"It was stolen," said Peter. "We intercepted it during an operation, and now we're trying to find the thief."

"I bet Teddy took it," said Harriet, her vagueness giving way to venom. "My ex-husband, Theodore Edgar Grissolm. I spent sixteen years of my life putting up with his drinking and rudeness, hosting his bloody parties, listening to his excuses and organizing his life, and now he's taken the one thing I had left."

"We're looking into the theft," Neal assured her. "We'll find whoever's responsible." 

Peter picked up a file folder from the coffee table. "The Food Freedom Foundation," he read from the cover. "Are you involved with the Foundation, Mrs. Grissolm?"

Harriet blinked. "Ms. And yes, of course. I'm on the board. With the mess my ex-husband and his revolting friends are making of the planet, I had to do something. Why?"

"So you know Janzs Walters," said Peter.

"Of course," said Harriet. She hugged herself tighter. "He took over as the Foundation's legal consultant a few months ago. You don't think he had anything to do with my necklace, do you? Janzs—Mr. Walters—he'd never do that. Lovely man. Lovely."

"We're exploring a number of leads," said Peter. "Tell me, when did you first notice the necklace was missing?"

"A week ago, I think," said Harriet. "Maybe more. Shortly after I moved in here, anyway. I had tickets for the opera." The rest of her statement was equally unhelpful, mostly because she was convinced Teddy had committed the theft. "He's a worm." 

"We've met," said Neal, resisting the temptation to congratulate her on breaking free.

"Then you know what I mean," Harriet appealed to him. "He'd have taken it just for spite. But now the FBI has it, is that right? Can I have it back?"

"I'm afraid not," said Peter. "Once the case is closed, it will be returned to you."

"Really?" Harriet twisted her fingers fretfully in the hem of her cardigan. "Are you sure I can't have it now? I'd be so grateful. The Foundation's having a dinner tomorrow night, and I should wear it. I really think I should. That would show Teddy."

"I wish you could," said Peter, regretfully. "But the necklace is evidence." He gave her his card and asked her to call if she remembered anything else about the theft, and they took their leave. Outside, on the way to the car, Peter said, "You think she's right? Teddy's working with Walters?"

Neal slid into the passenger seat and waited till Peter was sitting beside him. "She barely noticed it was missing. Teddy Grissolm's not that subtle. And he's been cleaned out too, remember. What are the chances the two burglaries are unrelated?"

"If Walters or our thief got Harriet talking about her unpleasant ex and his art collection, and how the necklace was the only thing she got in the divorce—"

"The charity is the key."

"Looks like it," said Peter. "Walters and his accomplice are finding their targets through the Food Freedom Foundation."

"Now we just need to find the accomplice," said Neal.

"And stop him before he steals again," added Peter.

 

*

 

"The Food Freedom Foundation," said Diana, bringing up the charity's logo on the conference room display. "They help struggling domestic and international farmers to source quality patent-free seedstock for their farms."

"Has anyone else on the board reported items stolen?" asked Peter.

"Not so far." Diana changed the image to a grid of a dozen faces. "The board has twelve members, three of whom are new this year."

"Ariana Sharif, Benedict Veldman and Harriet Grissolm," said Jones, reading off the list in front of him.

"Given Teddy Grissolm made his millions working for Monsanto, membership of the Foundation pretty much qualifies as motive for cleaning him and Harriet out," remarked Neal. "Maybe one of the other members is our thief."

"I want background checks on all of them, starting with those who joined most recently," said Peter. "And look into any other similar organizations connected to Walters' law practice. Those kinds of charities attract wealthy people, so their memberships are a ready-made hit list for thieves looking for high-end scores. Come on, let's get moving before they strike again." He glanced at Neal. "Have you arranged to meet with Walters to make payment for the necklace?"

"Just about to." Neal took out his phone and set up the exchange for later that afternoon. When he hung up, he sat back in his seat. "Walters has 'a substantial number of further items' for me to fence. Bet it's Grissolm's collection."

Peter frowned.

"What?" said Diana.

"It's coming together, but we need to wrap this up quickly. The Bureau's not going to risk paying out tens of thousands more when we haven't even IDed our thief."

"Could be hundreds of thousands," said Neal, helpfully, but his heart sank. It was a good case—simple art and jewelry theft, no violence, no risk—and he was enjoying his freedom from the marshal's prying eyes. When the case ended, the anklet would go back on and everything would change again, this time for the worse. 

"We have to catch him before it comes to that." Peter was watching him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. Neal could almost see the phrases _moral hazard_ and _conflict of interest_ start to form on his lips.

"Then we will," said Neal confidently. If Peter wanted the case closed, that was what he'd get.

 

*

 

Neal sat at his desk, covertly monitoring Peter and Diana as they chatted by the coffee machine. If Peter's gestures and enthusiasm were anything to go by, he was giving her a rundown of last night's ballgame. Diana wasn't a big sports fan, but she knew Peter was. She laughed at something he said and asked a question, her concerns apparently allayed. 

Neal waited until she went back to her desk to answer the phone. Then he sent Peter a text: _Good job. Lunch?_

Peter pulled his phone from his pocket, read the message and came over, checking his watch as he came. "What did you have in mind?"

His face and voice were bland, but the look in his eyes made Neal's pulse kick up. Neal checked to make sure no one was listening, then raised his eyebrows at Peter and drawled, "Well, I was thinking food, but I'm definitely open to other suggestions."

"Come on." Peter left his full coffee cup on the corner of the desk, Neal grabbed his suit jacket, and together they headed down to the parking garage. It was still a little before noon and they had the elevator car to themselves, but Neal was mindful of the security cameras and kept his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't molest Peter on tape. 

"Mulberry Street?" he suggested hopefully.

"We could, or—" Peter stretched out his neck, looking awkward. "We keep talking about getting tested."

"That's true." Nagging desire warred with the possibility of getting his mouth directly on Peter's cock, licking him, sucking and tasting. Neal felt himself start to harden. "Let's do that."

"Good." Peter was slightly flushed. "Do you know where—"

Neal had done some research earlier in the week. "I know a place."

Walters called while they were in the car on their way to the free clinic. "Ah, Mr. Halden. I'm afraid I'm snowed under with work. I'll have to postpone our meeting until Monday."

Alarm bells went off in Neal's head. "Monday? Are you sure you want to wait that long? I have the money for the necklace—eighteen and a half thousand. I can bring cash."

That caught Peter's attention, and he signaled Neal to put the call on speaker. 

"I can't get away tomorrow," said Walters firmly. "There's an urgent matter that requires my full attention."

"How about Saturday?" Neal kept it businesslike. His instincts said any pressure and Walters would bolt completely. "Then I can get started with this new shipment. I already have some potential contacts lined up, depending on the items in question."

Walters hesitated. "Saturday," he said. "All right. Eight A.M."

"See you then," said Neal cheerfully, and disconnected the call before Walters could reconsider. He looked at Peter. "That's not good."

Peter frowned. "You think he's blowing you off?"

"Care to rephrase that?" Neal smirked, then got serious. "Something's spooked him."

"And you're sure you didn't—"

"I didn't do anything. I was tempted to slow the case down, but I didn't." Neal kept his voice steady and his expression candid, determined not to take the question personally. "You heard me—I even talked Walters back to Saturday. He wanted to wait till Monday."

"I know." Peter's frown deepened. "Maybe he's taking some time to run a background check on you."

"If he looks, he won't find anything. My alias is watertight," said Neal. Diana and Jones had made sure of that. "You want to bring Walters in for questioning?"

"His job is to protect his client. He won't talk, and if we bring him in, we lose our only solid lead." Peter found a parking space around the corner from the free clinic in Queens that Neal had suggested. "We'll figure it out when we get back to the office. Maybe Diana and Jones will find a suspect among the other charity members. And this afternoon we're going to take a look around Walters' office on the docks."

 

*

 

Walters' office felt abandoned. The desk still had a superficial collection of anonymous stationery, but when Neal went through the desk drawers, the only things he found were a blank legal pad and the FBI's watch.

Peter was prowling the rest of the room, scouring it for clues. Neal's phone buzzed with a text message, and Peter came across as Neal checked the display. "Is that Walters?"

"No, it's—" Neal bit off his reply and took a moment to switch off the audio transmitter in the watch before he continued. Probably no one was listening, but it paid to be sure. "It's from Elizabeth. She's got a late meeting, so she's going to meet me at the Marlborough."

Peter nodded. "There's nothing here, is there?"

"Not that I can see." Neal turned to him and leered. "Nice and private, though."

Peter rolled his eyes, but he came up to Neal and leaned in. "Bad influence," he accused softly.

"I try." Neal let his thumb graze Peter's jaw. He wanted to do more, much more, but Jones was keeping watch outside, and there was only so long they could plausibly take to discover Walters hadn't left anything incriminating here. Neal gave Peter one slow, sweet kiss and reluctantly stepped away.

Peter's gaze was warm. "Come back here."

"Shouldn't we—" Neal gestured halfheartedly toward the door, but he couldn't resist the invitation. Peter perched on the edge of Walters' desk, and Neal moved into his arms and leaned against him. He was hoping for more kissing, maybe even hasty, ill-advised sex, and he nuzzled Peter's neck provocatively, but Peter seemed content just to hold him, hugging him tight and breathing him in, and that was good too. The tension in Peter's shoulders eased, and Neal himself felt steadied and obscurely comforted. In general he enjoyed the challenge of keeping secrets and creating a plausible cover story, but this time was complicated; the stakes were Peter's career and Neal's freedom, and Neal respected Diana and Jones. And if Neal was finding it tough, how much worse must it be for Peter? But this hug said more clearly than words—and more clearly than sex ever could—that Peter cared enough to outweigh the costs, that it was worth it to him. 

Neal let out a deep sigh and hugged him back.

 

*

 

"You didn't call me, Nick," said Maddy, cornering Neal in front of a still life by Morandi at the Marlborough Gallery that evening. "I'm disappointed."

Neal pasted on a smile. "Because I knew I'd run into you again soon," he said. "Good to see you again, Maddy. How are you?"

"Oh, you know," she said. "Nothing new under the sun. I keep hoping one of these hot new artists will surprise me, but everything's an homage." Her complaint was thick with ennui. "Tell me you found something interesting in Europe, Nicolas, please." She moved closer to make way for a waiter with a drinks tray and swapped out her empty glass for a full one, but she didn't step back again when the waiter had gone. Neal held his ground—when Maddy felt slighted, her voice tended to rise an octave and several decibels—but he turned side-on so he could survey the throng. He couldn't see Elizabeth yet. 

The gallery was packed with artists, agents, dealers and critics as well as a good number of patrons and dedicated aficionados like Maddy, and most of them were engaged in animated conversation, either discussing the works on display or catching up on gossip. It was a scene Neal used to be intimately familiar with, but falling out of touch was like ceasing to exist, and no one but Maddy spared him a second glance.

"My next exhibition's still very much in the formative stages," he told her, "but I guarantee there'll be something to pique your interest."

"I feel better just hearing that assurance." Maddy put her hand on his arm. "You know, if you need contacts, I can help. The curator at the Met owes me a favor."

"Sorry I'm late," said a voice at Neal's elbow, and he turned to find Elizabeth, bright-eyed and slightly breathless, in a perfectly fitted red dress with her hair curling elegantly around her shoulders. He had half a second to be blindsided by a wave of something like déjà vu, and then she was reaching up to kiss the corner of his mouth. Her perfume was floral and elusive. "My meeting ran long."

"Who's your friend, Nicolas?" said Maddy.

Elizabeth's eyes widened a fraction, but she held out her hand and said smoothly, "I'm Audrey. And you are?"

Neal blinked and remembered his manners. "Audrey Gardner, this is an old friend, Maddy Dentworth."

The two women shook hands, sizing each other up, and Neal caught a waiter's eye and managed to relieve him of two champagne glasses, one of which he presented to Elizabeth. 

"Thanks, honey," she said with a devastating smile and mischief lurking in her eyes.

Still off-balance, Neal smiled back, only partly for Maddy's benefit. El's long silver earrings drew attention to the curve of her neck, and he had a sudden unexpected impulse to bury his face there and inhale, to analyze the complexity of her perfume.

"'Honey'? You two are dating?" Maddy raised an arch eyebrow. "Nick, why didn't you tell me, you naughty boy?"

"We have been seeing a lot of each other lately," said Elizabeth, cheerfully not rising to the bait. "Oh, Nick, I just saw Max go into the other room. I have to introduce you before the lecture starts. Maddy, would you excuse us?"

They escaped through the archway and went to lurk behind a large metal-and-glass sculpture, where Audrey visibly turned back into Elizabeth, raising her eyebrows at him with mock severity. "Nick? Nick Halden, I presume."

"It's a long story," said Neal. "Maddy and I go a long way back, and I—"

"Oh god," said Elizabeth, coloring. "I'm sorry. I mean, that was out of line, wasn't it? I just—" She looked away. "First Sandy and now this. Your friend Maddy was circling you like a hungry piranha, and I just wanted to—"

"Don't apologize," interrupted Neal. "Seriously. You were great." She'd been magnificent. Maddy could be overbearing at the best of times, but Elizabeth had been more than a match for her, not to mention picking up on Neal's alias without missing a beat. Neal raised his glass to hers. "To Audrey and Nick."

Elizabeth's cheeks were still pink, but she snickered at his toast and raised her glass. "The perfect couple—except for how I've heard they're both otherwise involved with a very special man."

"Well, that's just one more thing they have in common," said Neal. "Excellent taste."


	28. Chapter 28

The lecturer was Veena Kinnaird, a well-known Edinburgh painter who also worked as an authenticator, and the title of her talk was _What Makes a Painting Genuine?_ Sitting next to one of the leading forgers of their generation certainly put an interesting spin on the artist's words, El thought, amused.

"All great endeavors—certainly all creative ones—involve the taking of multiple risks, large and small, and if one takes enough risks, one can be sure that one will eventually meet failure and disappointment. Risks are like that. But this inevitably raises the question, should my failures be accepted as genuine works? If my reputation were to survive a hundred years and some enterprising future soul dredged one of my discarded canvases out of a landfill, would experts consider that canvas to be a true Veena Kinnaird or a poor imitation? And how _should_ they value it? In this age of celebrity, even mass-produced items attain the status of memorabilia by association—"

El's attention wandered. Attendance was high, and she could put names to half the faces here, from past events she'd managed or photos in the society pages. She even recognized a few contacts from her work at the gallery years ago, but with so many luminaries present, they wouldn't have time to more than acknowledge her presence. Probably just as well—she'd have a hard time explaining her escort to old friends who knew she was married to Peter. People would talk.

In the second row, off to the side, sat Maddy, tall and attractive. El squirmed internally. What if she'd misread the situation? Maddy and Neal went way back, they had shared interests. Maybe he hadn't wanted to be rescued. And El didn't know what had possessed her to describe Maddy as a piranha to Neal's face. That he hadn't seemed to mind was no excuse. It had been rude. El shook off her misgivings and tried to pay attention to the lecture.

Beside her, Neal uncrossed his legs and leaned back slightly, making his chair creak. El snuck a glance at him. She was acutely conscious that only that morning, he'd lain with her and Peter in their bed, a part of their marriage hidden from the rest of the world, and it felt now as if, of all the people in the room, he was the only one who could understand what that meant and who they really were. As if they were bound together by love and secrets. 

He seemed focused on Kinnaird's lecture, his handsome face revealing the avid pleasure of someone unused to hearing their native language spoken, but he must have noticed El watching him, because he glanced at her and sent her a quick wink.

El bit her lips together to hide her grin and tuned back into the talk.

 

*

 

"So, Mozzie says you're pretty much irredeemable." El sent Neal a teasing look across the polished black marble tabletop. After the lecture and a stroll around the exhibits at the Marlborough, Neal had suggested they try a nearby sushi restaurant. It was quiet and luxurious, and the food was deliciously subtle. El could feel the grains of rice on her tongue, the crisp fresh taste of the wine.

Neal's eyebrows twitched at her remark. "You may have noticed Moz has some blind spots. He can't understand why someone might want a normal life."

"Do you?" El leaned forward, surveying him. He was noticeably younger than Peter, as elegant as the restaurant, and while unfailingly deferential, he treated her like an equal, making her feel bold and sophisticated too, out here living the high life. But she loved her home and her marriage, and so did Peter, and she needed assurance that, in the long term, Neal could accept that quieter arena. Forcing Peter into a life of art and glamor wasn't an option. El had found a way to balance the two worlds by indulging her love of society events through her work; how would Neal do it? Or would he simply get bored with family picnics and evenings in front of the television, and move on? Perhaps these were things she should have considered before all this had started, but she'd been caught up in the taboo of it: Peter's illicit desire for Neal and her own excitement at shaking things up. 

Come to think of it, perhaps she wasn't balancing her worlds as well as she'd thought.

"I'm having an enjoyable dinner with my lover's wife," said Neal drily. "What's normal?"

El smiled to acknowledge the point, but she wasn't going to let him evade the question so easily. "You don't miss your life as an infamous international man of mystery?"

"I like New York, and nothing compares to working with Peter," said Neal, as if that settled the matter. Maybe it did. He ate some sashimi and sent her a conspiratorial look. "What else did Moz say about me?"

"That you can't tell the truth to save yourself." El swallowed her mouthful and met his eye. "And that you really loved Kate."

"I did." 

Neal said it without prevarication, his gaze steady, and El answered in the same vein. "So is Peter a rebound?"

"Elizabeth, you of all people should know it's possible to love two people at once," said Neal, gently chiding, and El's heart skipped a beat, but he was dipping a tempura roll in a small dish of sauce and didn't seem to notice her confusion. "I mean, you're married to Peter—"

"—and he loves both of us," finished El, relieved to realize Neal had been talking about her husband, not her. She picked up a stray sliver of smoked eel with her chopsticks and tamped down her reaction to the misunderstanding. She'd examine that later.

Neal set down his wineglass and folded his arms on the edge of the table. "And whatever Moz says, I would never lie to Peter. We're partners."

"Would you lie to me?"

"Only if I had to, to protect you."

"I don't need protecting." El frowned. "Why would I need protecting? Is something wrong? Is it the case?"

"Now you sound like Mozzie," said Neal, shaking his head at her with a smile. "I was speaking hypothetically."

"See, you say that, but how do I know?" said El reasonably. "You could be lying to protect me now."

"Elizabeth." Neal reached across the table and covered her hand with his own—warm, strong, with long sensitive fingers. It was a chaste gesture designed to get her attention, no presumption in it, but it still make El's mouth go dry. Neal seemed oblivious. "I won't lie to you."

She reached for her wineglass with her free hand. "I think, after everything, you could call me El, don't you?" 

"Not Audrey?" said Neal, with a wicked gleam.

El shook her head. He was incorrigible. "No, Nick. Not Audrey." 

Neal laughed low. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, and El's cheeks heated. 

She glanced around, suddenly paranoid someone would see them. "Um, are we flirting?"

"We might be." Neal looked casual and relaxed, his eyebrows hopeful, but El couldn't be sure how much that was an act, how much any of this was an act. She had the feeling he was poised for retreat, but even if he wasn't, even if he meant it, it was too complicated. He and Peter had only just got together, and El was still figuring out how their current arrangement worked, where the lines should go, what she needed from Peter and the effect of Neal on their marriage. As the wife, she had a lot of power in the situation; Neal was almost obligated to cater to her whims, at least to some degree. And she was doing her best to be fair, to respect Neal and Peter's space and let them set their own boundaries too. It was all already about as complicated as she could handle.

She gently extricated her hand. "Let's not. You have Peter. You don't have to woo me too, you know."

A flicker that could have been disappointment crossed Neal's face, but it was gone before El could be sure. "I apologize," he said.

She gave him a soft smile. "Why did you go looking for my Audrey post on the internet forums? I won't ask how, because I'm not sure I want to know, given the effort I went to to be anonymous, but—why?"

"I didn't know it would bother you," said Neal. "I suppose I wanted to make sure you weren't having second thoughts. Are you?"

"It's more complicated than I expected," she told him. "But I'm glad we're doing it. I like you and Peter together."

"Complicated?"

"I didn't realize it would change _everything_." El give him a wry smile, and for a moment, she wished she could confide in him, that they could be best friends without any undercurrents. He was a good listener, and he wouldn't judge her. She liked him. He was discreet. But too much of what she was going through was about him, too much was about her and Peter. Neal would try to fix everything, and it wasn't fair to put him in that position. 

"What can I do to make it less complicated?" he asked earnestly, proving her point.

El glanced down at her empty plate, decorated with an accidental artistic smear of wasabi. "Do you still look at the online forums?"

"Just that one time, after you said you'd made a post." He was watching her, waiting to spring into action to do her bidding.

"Then you could keep it that way." El made an apologetic face. "I know it's silly, but it makes me self-conscious to know you might be reading."

"I can do that, but Elizabeth—"

"El."

He met her gaze and seemed to catch himself. When he spoke again, it was light and casual. "If there's anything else, just say the word."

"I will, I promise." El rolled her eyes, mocking them both. "It's okay, Neal. I don't need rescuing. I'll figure this out."

"I'm sure you will." He sat back and reached for the wine, and El changed the subject, asking if Neal had any plans for the weekend. "Nothing to speak of. How about you?"

El grinned. "You mean does Peter have plans or can you get him all to yourself?"

Neal leaned back and tilted his head thoughtfully. "I don't know, I like sharing him too. I enjoyed last weekend very much."

"Me too," said El, smiling, relieved they seemed to have found their way past the earlier momentary awkwardness, to a safe place where they could joke and tease each other without being misunderstood. They were family now. It was better this way.


	29. Chapter 29

Peter plonked down on his couch with a satisfied sigh. He had his TV remote, nacho chips, a beer and a stack of work-ups on charities and other organizations connected with Walters' law firm. Diana and Jones hadn't found anything suspicious, but another pair of eyes wouldn't hurt. The game was in its second quarter, and Satchmo was on his mat chewing on a cow's ear. And in two or three hours, El and Neal would come home to him, having enjoyed an evening of art talk and sushi. It was the best of all possible worlds.

He took a swig of beer and flipped open the top file, a charity for Romanian orphans. The treasurer's car had been stolen six months earlier, but there was a note from Jones saying the thief had been caught and charged. Peter scanned the file. None of the names stood out, nothing suspicious. The legal consultant was Olivia Haast, Walters' partner. Peter closed the file and picked up the next one, a school's board of trustees.

As he read, his mind wandered. Despite monitoring Walters' phones, they had no evidence of him contacting his accomplice, but the two of them had to be communicating somehow. Was he sending messages via a third party? Using a burner phone? Carrier pigeons? Exposure to Neal and Mozzie's methods had made Peter unwilling to rule out even the most improbable scenarios.

An excited burst of commentary from the television caught his attention, and he watched the game for a while, letting his thoughts about the case simmer. Something weird was going on: two thefts from an estranged husband and wife. Neither theft had been reported. The FBI had the necklace, but—

Peter sat up and automatically reached for his phone. "Diana, I need you to check Walters' financials. If he has Teddy Grissolm's art collection, he has to be storing it somewhere, and he's too careful to keep it at his house or the law firm."

"Boss, it's a quarter to eight," said Diana, sounding blunt and amused in about equal measure. "Unless it's urgent, I'm off the clock."

"Oh, right." Peter gestured apologetically with his beer bottle. "Tomorrow morning then. Say hi to Christie for me."

"Will do. 'Night, Peter." 

Peter slid his phone back into his pocket and stared at the TV screen, but his curiosity was tweaked now. He could follow it up himself, if he logged into the FBI system. El's laptop was on the table. Peter finished his beer and went to get another, planning to commandeer El's computer on the way back to the couch.

Instead he found himself gazing into the vegetable bin of the refrigerator, distracted by a plastic bag of carrots, long, orange and phallic. Neal had penetrated himself with a carrot once. _It felt good,_ he'd said during their liaison at the Mulberry Street hotel. Peter snorted, grabbed a beer and closed the fridge firmly. He was not going to masturbate with a carrot up his ass. Aside from the basic indignity of the concept, it would inevitably lead to some kind of farcical situation at the emergency room and El and Neal's laughing at him forever. And a carrot couldn't feel that good, surely—too cold and rough.

Peter wondered if there were batteries in El's vibrator.

Okay, no. Mind on the job. But when Peter took El's laptop back to the couch, rather than logging in to the Bureau's network and sifting through Walters' bank accounts, he opened the web browser and searched for advice on how to give blowjobs. He had to turn off filtering, but then he got back thousands of hits, all aimed at women. Unsurprisingly, most of the ones he read were explicit enough to make him blush. He emerged half a bag of nacho chips later, half-hard and considerably better informed. 

Next time maybe he wouldn't embarrass himself. Peter might not have natural talent—like Neal had for pretty much everything he tried, in and out of bed—but he could learn. And if the last time was anything to go by, Neal would be happy to provide opportunities for Peter to practice. Hopefully they'd get a chance this weekend.

Peter closed the last of his educational sites and deleted the browsing history. The rightmost remaining tab of El's was a Wikipedia entry on compersion, and his gaze skated down the page: _It is commonly used to describe when a person experiences positive feelings when a lover is enjoying another relationship. It is an opposite of jealousy._

That was what El had been talking about. Peter heart clenched with familiar gratitude, and he glanced at the next tab over, a forum on polyamory. It was strange to think that the word now applied to him and his relationships. He'd always considered himself absolutely normal, boring even, but now he wasn't straight _or_ monogamous. The cornerstones of his public identity were crumbling, and even so, aside from the sneaking around, it felt totally natural to love both El and Neal. That was who he was on a fundamental level. And if this forum were anything to go by, he wasn't the only one in this situation. Maybe this was just a new, wider definition of normal after all.

By the time Satch raised his head and whined at the sound of the others arriving home, Peter had discovered that the world of relationships was far more diverse and messy than he'd imagined. Apparently things didn't always go as smoothly as they had in their case: people cheated and argued, negotiations broke down, lovers wanted different things. Not everyone embarked on expanding their relationships with people who were compatible, and a lot of people with more than one significant other found that their others didn't get along. Of course, if there'd been the potential for that kind of discord or disaster in his, El's and Neal's case, they wouldn't have started down this path in the first place. 

Peter cleared the browser cache again and looked up as El and Neal came in ("Maybe again next week?" "Depends on the state of my anklet, but I'd like that."). They were stunning together. El's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. It was obvious she'd had a few glasses of wine, but also that she'd enjoyed herself. 

Neal was more quietly satisfied, his hands deep in his pockets. His lips curved up, and he greeted Peter warmly, but as El moved ahead of him into the living room, something in the line of his shoulders or the quality of his gaze was slightly off. A barely discernible undercurrent of gravity and restraint. Peter didn't get a chance to ask about it.

"Hey, hon. Whatcha doing?" asked El.

"I was just reading one of your forums," said Peter, self-consciously closing the laptop and putting it aside.

El stopped in her tracks and exchanged a glance with Neal, and they both burst out laughing, almost hysterically, until El was leaning on the bookcase, gasping for air. "Oh, hon." She turned to Neal. "This doesn't change anything, you know."

"I know," he said, still snickering.

"What?" asked Peter, but he didn't really mind being the butt of their joke. Neal's reticence was gone, any tension dissolved into laughter. That was well worth a little indignity.

"I'll tell you later," said El. She wiped tears of hilarity from her eyes, and her expression turned suddenly brisk and efficient, but there was mischief lurking. "Right now, we need you to help us move a bed."

"A bed?" Peter raised his eyebrows. "What's going on?"

"We couldn't decide whose turn it was," said Neal.

"So we decided to share you." El nodded. "But with the Wickerton Banquet coming at me like an avalanche of contradictory client decisions, I really need a good night's sleep, and three adults in a bed didn't really seem conducive to that."

Neal gave a small smug shrug. "So we came up with a compromise."

"A compromise," Peter echoed, still playing catch-up. 

"Move the twin from the guest room into our bedroom. Instant super king-sized plus." El beamed. "What do you think?" 

Peter stood up and went to them. He gave Neal a quick peck on the lips and squeezed his shoulder, and then took El in his arms and kissed her breathless. When he finally raised his head, still holding her, it took a good few seconds for her to open her eyes. "You're okay with that?" he asked.

"More okay than with taking a turn in the guest room," she said wryly. "It's a compromise, and I'm good with it if it's what you want. Neal's pretty desperate to spend the night with you." She looked past Peter and winked.

"I didn't say desperate," Neal defended himself.

Peter stepped back and rubbed his hands together. "Let's move some beds."

It took some shuffling. Peter and Neal between them easily maneuvered the box base and mattress into the master bedroom, but that didn't leave a lot of floor space, and the guest bed was a couple of inches shorter than Peter and El's bed. But still, once they'd moved the main bed nearer the wall and jettisoned one of the nightstands, there was room. Peter and El were going to have to swap sides of the bed so he could be in the middle, but when he and Neal were lying side by side, waiting for El to get back from the bathroom, Peter was more content than he'd previously thought possible. He leaned across and kissed Neal tenderly. "You two are spoiling me."

"You're not the only one getting spoiled." Neal cupped Peter's head and kissed him back, deeper this time, making his desire, and yes, a certain desperation obvious.

Peter pulled back and searched his face. "Everything okay?"

"Of course." Neal reached for Peter's hand under the covers. "What could be better?" 

It was almost convincing. Probably any qualms were because he wished they could be alone together, get naked and carnal—and god, Peter wanted that too, though thinking it made him feel greedy and ungrateful—or maybe it was the knowledge that any day now Neal would be back in his anklet and these kinds of indulgences would be harder to arrange. 

"We'll be fine," Peter told him now, vague and reassuring, and Neal smiled lopsidedly, but before they could get to the heart of whatever was troubling him, if anything, El returned in her vacation pajamas, thin yellow cotton patterned with flowers, more demure than her usual strappy tops and loose sleep pants. These yellow ones were generally reserved for staying with friends or family. 

Neal was wearing his pajamas too, silky and fancy. Peter was the only one in plain sleepwear—an old t-shirt and boxers. It seemed unfair that he was underdressed by comparison to them even in the bedroom, but at least the others didn't seem to care.

"Let the sleepover commence," said El, sliding into bed beside Peter. "Goodnight, Neal. 'Night, hon." She turned out the lamp on her side of the bed, and Neal returned the sentiment and switched off the lamp on his side. The room filled with shadows and the sounds of their breathing, the soft rustle of bedclothes. 

Peter, his wrist bent to accommodate the step in the mattresses, was still holding Neal's hand, and El snuggled up lightly against his other side. He wanted Neal's body against his too, wanted to put his arm around him and be sure everything was all right, so it wasn't totally satisfying, but it was damned close, and anyway, Peter didn't have time for regrets or rearrangements, because he drifted off in a matter of seconds.

 

*

 

He was woken the next morning by the need to use the bathroom. The other two were still sleeping soundly, and El was sufficiently used to sharing a bed that Peter managed to climb over her without disturbing her to the point of waking. 

He grabbed his robe, went to relieve himself and then, rather than return to bed, he went downstairs to put the coffee on. The alarm would go off in just a few minutes, and while the idea of hugs and lazing around in bed was appealing, there was something Peter wanted more: a shared breakfast with the three of them. The illusion of normality—whatever that now meant.

He let Satchmo out, cleared El's work things from the table and got out the good plates and silverware while the aroma of June's Italian Roast suffused the air. Then cereal boxes: his Honey Nut Cheerios, bran for El, and the fancy European muesli he'd bought Neal on the basis that the expensive deli Neal liked stocked it, it looked more or less like the kind of thing he'd seen Neal eat at June's place, and it cost an ungodly amount of money. 

Matching coffee mugs, glasses, the Times— Peter was in the kitchen wondering whether to pour the orange juice into a glass jug when there was a low whistle from out by the dining table. 

Satchmo whuffed in response, and Peter turned. Neal was standing just outside the kitchen doorway, apparently still half asleep, his hair endearingly disheveled. "Expecting company?"

Peter put down the juice and came over to him, held him by the hips, hyperconscious of his body under those slinky pajamas, all that skin just out of reach, and kissed him. He kept it light and pulled back slowly. "Indulge me," he said, tilting his head toward the breakfast spread.

Neal's gaze was soft. "I told Elizabeth I'd find you and drag you back to bed for a while, but that coffee smells too good to pass up."

"Help yourself," said Peter. "I'll go and get El."

When he came back downstairs a few minutes later, El having opted for a quick pre-breakfast shower, he was gratified to find Neal drinking coffee and scanning the newspaper headlines, a bowl of the expensive muesli in front of him.

Peter sat beside him and poured his own cereal, determined not to make too big a deal out of it, but pleasure curled in his chest, heavy and sweet, and when Neal wordlessly passed him the front section of the paper without being asked, their eyes met. Neal smiled, warm and a little teasing, and Peter knew Neal understood that this was important to him. That by sharing breakfast like this, casual and comfortable together in this cocoon of time and space, they were crossing a line for Peter, a good line. One of the best.


	30. Chapter 30

Neal smothered a yawn over the morning paper. Peter had been out like a light last night, but Neal had lain awake for at least an hour, maybe two, trying to unravel the mélange of pleasure and comfort at being near to Peter, frustration at not being even nearer, and a whole mess of mixed feelings about Elizabeth. She was like a generous, beautiful, well-meaning bulldozer. She'd seen the green shoots of Neal's attraction unfurl at the Marlborough and over dinner, she'd acknowledged his overtures for what they were, and she'd unceremoniously, in the nicest possible way, rejected them outright. And then invited him to sleep in her bedroom to be close to Peter.

No flirting, Neal reminded himself. No romance with the charming Mrs. Burke. There was a wall there, and he was in no position to try to find a way around it. He already owed her too much, respected her too much to do anything but accept her decision. They'd been friends and allies up till now; how hard could it be to perpetuate that status quo? 

And Neal had Peter, or some measure of him at least. More than he had any right to expect. Peter whom Neal had yearned for all this time. That should be enough. But Neal had conned enough people over the years to know when he was playing a part, and lying in the Burkes' bedroom pretending he wanted only Peter, that he was perfectly happy—that was a fraud. A necessary one, but a fraud nonetheless. He was there under false pretenses.

Technically, he'd promised Peter full disclosure, but that surely didn't apply to a sudden surge of unwelcome, unrequited desire for someone else, even Elizabeth. Especially Elizabeth. Neal didn't need to explain every thought and fancy that passed through his brain, every artwork he appropriated in his dreams. Telling Peter would only complicate things, he concluded, staring at the bedroom ceiling at half past midnight, listening to the counterpoint of the Burkes' breathing. And Peter didn't like complicated.

He woke to find Elizabeth watching him with an odd, almost rueful expression across the empty, rumpled bedding where Peter should be, and that cemented his decision. This whole situation was too important and too delicate to disrupt. Neal was going to stick to the script: him and Peter, Peter and Elizabeth. 

He gathered his wits and excused himself to go in search of Peter, promising himself that as soon as he'd had a chance to get himself schooled and under control, everything would go right back to the way it had been between them before—playful and easy.

 

*

 

Peter and Neal both looked up from their sections of the paper as Elizabeth came downstairs, fully dressed and business-like in a cream linen suit over an electric blue blouse. She retrieved her laptop from the living room and brought it to the dining table, bestowing them with an unapologetic smile. "You can read the headlines the old-fashioned way if you like, but you realize they're already out of date, right?"

"I like my news on paper," said Peter unperturbed. 

"I know you do, hon." Elizabeth kissed his temple, went to pour herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from Neal. Her gaze took in the cereal in his bowl, and the corners of her mouth twitched into an upside-down grin. 

Neal returned her smile and forced his attention back to the Times and his muesli. He couldn't excuse himself yet—this breakfast was too important to Peter—but in a few minutes the clock would send them upstairs to shower and shave anyway. And it was only the newness of the feelings that made them so vivid. It would get easier to ignore them soon.

"Oh, dammit!" said Elizabeth, putting down her coffee mug with a decided thump. She clicked at something on her computer. "They didn't!"

"Who did what?" Peter glanced at her screen.

"Infuriating clients." El scowled. "I told Louise at Wickerton she couldn't list their banquet on CharityBenefits.com. It's strictly for charity events. So what do you think comes up in my Google Alerts? And of course, it makes _me_ look bad. I need to call Yvonne." She pushed her chair back and went into the living room. "Honey, have you seen my phone?"

"It's on the nightstand," called Peter. He pulled the laptop toward him and scanned the screen. "CharityBenefits.com—the master calendar of charity benefits, parties and events in Manhattan," he read out. In the next room, Elizabeth was talking into the phone, clipped and annoyed. 

Neal focused on Peter, who was sporting his narrow-eyed investigative look, but since the subject of that look was on Elizabeth's laptop, which was verboten to Neal, Neal resisted moving to read over Peter's shoulder and asked instead. "What is it?"

"Harriet Grissolm said she wanted to wear her diamond necklace to the Food Freedom Foundation's dinner tonight, but there's no mention here of the Foundation's holding any kind of event."

"Maybe they didn't list it on the site," said Neal. 

"Maybe." Peter typed something and sat back, his attention fixed on the screen. "Or maybe she was lying to us." He turned the laptop so Neal could see a notice for the Foundation's charity dinner in a week's time.

Neal really hoped Harriet wasn't mixed up in the thefts. She'd already suffered through sixteen years of marriage to Teddy; no one should have to go to prison after that. "She could have got the dates mixed up," he said. "She was pretty vague."

"Not that vague." Peter took the computer back and typed some more while Neal finished his coffee. "A month ago, Harriet made a speech promising a large donation to the Foundation in the near future," said Peter, folding his paper and getting to his feet. "The kind of donation you might raise from selling stolen artworks, say. Come on. I want to have another talk with Ms. Grissolm." He tugged Neal toward the stairs, calling to El, "Hon, we have to go." 

There was no reply. From the sound of it, she was still on the phone to Yvonne.

"Well, we can't show up unshaven and unkempt in our pajamas," said Neal, who wanted a shower. "People would talk." He paused on the landing and raised his eyebrows at Peter, stepping into his space. "But if you really want to save time, we could shower together." Peter rolled his eyes, but he didn't veto the suggestion or complain when Neal backed him against the wall and added persuasively, "If it is Harriet, I could be back in the anklet by lunchtime." 

Forestalling Peter's response, Neal leaned in and kissed him, and after a brief hesitation, Peter succumbed, kissing back hard, and Neal lost himself in the immediacy of it, reminding himself that he had exactly what he wanted right here. Peter tasted of sugary cereal, and he smelled of coffee and sleep, and Neal needed him so badly it was like a sharp twist in his core, an ache in his balls. It had been forever since they'd had the chance. He slid his hand to the side of Peter's neck to cover the pulse thrumming there, hunger that matched his own.

"This is your idea of saving time," muttered Peter, but his voice was hoarse, his hands tightening on Neal's hips beneath Neal's loosened robe. One of his thumbs slipped under the pajama top to brush bare skin. Neal surged forward and rubbed against him, the folds of his pajama pants sliding sensuously around his hot hard cock until Peter groaned, dragging him even closer so their erections were trapped between their bodies. 

"Love you," said Neal, trying it out again, the words still foreign and clumsy with sincerity.

For a moment, Peter stopped breathing. Then he grabbed a couple of towels from the linen closet and hustled Neal into the bathroom. They were naked in seconds, their sleep clothes strewn on the floor, and Neal finally had Peter back in his arms, hot skin everywhere, strong hands touching him the way they were supposed to, the way Neal needed. Desire was pure and consuming: Neal didn't want anyone or anything else but this. Just this.

They bundled under the hot spray together and used their hands roughly, kissing and gasping in a frantic rush of water and passion, their free arms slung about each other's shoulders. Peter came first, swearing fluently, his skin flushed and ruddy in the steam, and Neal wanted to taste him all over, to tongue his navel, feather lips over his softening cock, maybe even lick his ass and make him hard again, make him shout with pleasure, but they were in a hurry, those things would have to wait for another time. Neal inhaled deeply and focused on Peter's hand stroking him, hard and fast, and on the shape of Peter's soft, swollen mouth with its slightly parted lips. 

Neal leaned in and bit Peter's lower lip, rolling it between his teeth, and Peter gave a low growl—not of complaint, but of something far more primal and possessive—and Neal felt it arc through him, the tension and need sparking violently. He hung on tight and came in Peter's arms, arching into him, wrung through.

A few minutes to recover and indulge in lazy kissing, and then Neal called time so Peter wouldn't have to. They washed quickly, toweled off and shaved side by side in front of the steamed-up mirror. They were late again, but Peter was humming and he didn't try too hard to rush Neal.

Neal winked at him in the mirror and turned his attention to the two Grissolm thefts. They had to be related somehow. And Harriet had lied to them at least once. He lowered his shaver. "Maybe Harriet took Teddy's collection in retaliation for Teddy's stealing her necklace. She lived with him; she'd know how to access his penthouse."

Peter shook his head. "We've found a link between Harriet and Walters, but there's no link between Walters and Teddy, and our thief has to be connected to Walters. That's where we came in, remember."

"You're right." Neal ran his hand over his jaw, checking for any stubble he'd missed. Not finding any, he put his shaver away and went to the guest room to get dressed, still mulling the case. He was knotting his tie when the answer hit him in a flash. He added a tie pin to his ensemble and looked up to see Peter watching from the doorway, wearing that warm expression that Neal still primarily associated with Peter's feelings for Elizabeth. "Hey," said Neal. "What if the necklace wasn't stolen?"

Peter's eyebrows flew up. "You think it's a forgery?"

"No, I think Harriet could have given it to Walters."

"It's worth twenty-five thousand dollars. Why would she do that?"

"It's a test," said Neal, his conviction solidifying as he reasoned it out. "Walters is cautious. He doesn't know if he can trust me to be discreet and professional, so he gives me an item to fence that isn't stolen, no one's looking for it. Then even if I screw up and it surfaces, it can't come back to bite him."

"Unless it brings the FBI to his door. And if it does, your cover's blown and they—"

"—they find some other way to dispose of Teddy Grissolm's collection," finished Neal. "And fast."

 

*

 

Peter called Diana while they were still on the bridge and told her the new theory.

"There's nothing in Walters' financials to show he's rented a storage unit," Diana reported. "I'll check Harriet Grissolm's." There was a pause and the faint clatter of typing. "Got it." She read out an address. 

"That's in the same block as Walters' office on the docks," said Peter. 

"Jones and I will meet you there. You want me to call Caffrey?"

"No, I'll do that." Peter hung up, looking grim.

"What's wrong?" Neal hoped it wasn't guilt about deceiving Diana. 

"Teddy Grissolm," said Peter. "When we talked to him about the necklace, we clued him in to Harriet's involvement without realizing it."

Neal remembered Teddy's simmering hostility at the mention of his ex-wife and felt a tingle of impending danger, amplified by the awareness that Peter was wearing his shoulder holster under his suit jacket. "He's not going to take that lying down." 

"No, he's not. And according to rumor, he has muscle." Peter put the portable siren on the dash and sped up. 

 

*

 

They reached the storage facility ahead of the others. The day manager refused to let them search the unit without a warrant, but when they reached it, the roller door was up, the space empty. But there were fresh scuff marks on the floor, and Peter pointed out a couple of well-defined drips next to a crumpled paper coffee cup. The liquid hadn't had time to evaporate or blur into the porous concrete yet. 

"They can't be far off," said Neal.

"Walters' office is around the corner." Peter gave the facility manager his business card. "Call me if anyone comes back."

They started down the street, but they'd only made it a few yards when the unmistakable crack of a gunshot split the air, quickly followed by a scream. Neal and Peter exchanged glances and took off in the direction of the shot, Peter radioing Diana as they ran. "Shot fired on the dock."

"We're still five minutes out," said Diana over the sound of her siren. 

"Neal and I will meet you there." Peter hooked his radio back on his belt and drew his gun.

Another shot rang out just as they rounded the corner, and yes, Neal had been right—Harriet was involved. She was right up in Teddy's face, yelling, "None of it's really yours anyway, you pig. None of it. Why buy art when you can take it as bribes?"

Teddy was flanked by a looming pair of armed goons who looked like corporate ex-military versions of Wesley Snipes and Jean Claude Van Damme, and the three of them were stopping Harriet from loading boxes onto an old fishing boat. Walters was on the ground. He'd taken a bullet to the shoulder, and blood glistened darkly on his jacket. His face was pale and contorted. Next to him, a box spilled shards of colored glass across the asphalt. The remains of a Chihuly.

Peter touched Neal's arm. "Stay here. I'm going to circle around behind them." 

Neal nodded.

Harriet was still fulminating so fiercely that no one had noticed Neal and Peter. "I know Dan gave you the Rothko after you had those Greenpeace protesters beaten up by your thugs last year," she said. "There's a reason you didn't go to the police when you discovered you'd been robbed!"

"Because I knew you'd taken them, bitch."

"How dare you speak to her like that," said Walters, struggling to his feet. Van Damme shoved him down again, making him gasp in pain.

Teddy ignored him. "And I knew I'd take them back. Farley, get the art and let's get out of here."

"What about him?" said Van Damme, pointing at Walters with his gun.

"Leave Janzs alone!" Harriet demanded. "And get out of our way. I know enough about your business dealings to ruin you. You're going to let me and Janzs take the art, and be grateful I didn't go to the police myself."

"You're threatening me?" thundered Teddy, grabbing her. "Me?" A vein bulged in his forehead, and he looked ready to strangle her. She kicked him in the shin, and he swore and pulled back his fist.

"Let her go," said Neal, moving forward and doing his best to look authoritative. 

Everyone turned to him. Teddy's grip on Harriet tightened, but he lowered his fist. His face darkened as he recognized Neal. "You're that Fed." 

"Neal Caffrey," said Harriet.

"George Daventry," said Walters from the ground, his voice strained. "He's the fence."

"What?" Harriet struggled free of Teddy. "No, he's—"

Distracted from Harriet, Teddy gestured to Snipes to train his gun on Neal. "Who are you?" demanded Teddy.

"I'm with the FBI." Neal raised his hands to be on the safe side, but he kept his tone and posture calm and confident. "My backup's on its way. You're out of time—listen."

The sirens were faint unmistakable, and Teddy was started to panic. "Fucking Feds. You want a thief? I've got two for you right here. Look at all this shit they took from me."

Neal glanced into the nearest box. "A de Kooning. Nice. Did you know this was stolen?"

"That's what I said," said Teddy, puffed up in the belief his strategy was working. "It's mine. They took it."

"It was stolen two years ago from a private collection in Seattle," said Neal. "Can you explain how it came into your possession?"

Teddy lowered his head like a bull. "Fuck you," he snarled, and he turned to Van Damme. "Shoot him. We can pin it on—"

"Drop your weapon," said Peter, jamming the barrel of his gun into Van Damme's neck before he could react. "FBI. You're under arrest." 

Van Damme reluctantly lowered his gun, and Peter pried it from his hand, but Teddy still wasn't giving up. He grabbed Snipes' semi-automatic from him and aimed at Peter, apparently prepared to shoot his way to freedom. Neal lunged for his arm, yanked it down and punched him with everything he had, which made Teddy stagger back, dragging Neal with him. Heavy hands landed on Neal's shoulders. It was Snipes, who growled and hauled Neal off Teddy, and Neal would probably have been pummeled into paste before Peter could stop them, except that just then backup arrived in a swarm of SWAT SUVs and sirens.

Teddy's shoulders finally went slack in defeat, and the goons sulkily raised their hands.

Neal met Peter's gaze and grinned.

 

*

 

In cuffs, Harriet bent over Walters' stretcher, clutching his hand. One of the EMTs said something reassuring, but Harriet barely seemed to hear. She kissed Walters. "I'm so sorry, darling. This is all my fault."

"That's Harriet Grissolm and Walters, right?" Diana came to stand next to Neal, her hands on her hips. "Huh. You know, there was nothing in Walters' financials, his phone records or anything to indicate they were romantically involved."

"Maybe they value their privacy," said Neal, still pumped with adrenaline and relieved as hell that both he and Peter had emerged from the melee unscathed. It could have been either one of them on that stretcher, but instead they were the victors. Neal grinned at Diana, making it clear he empathized with the two thieves. "What? You're telling me you've never had a secret relationship?"

"Have I ever been in the closet?" said Diana. "Not since—" She broke off, eyes widening, and stared at Neal for a long, electric moment. He could almost see her brain making connections, calculating something. "No way," she said at last.

"What?" asked Neal, confused, but Diana was scanning the bustle of FBI agents and arrested criminals, and when he followed her gaze, he saw Peter talking to Jones, nodding gravely and handing over Van Damme's gun. As Neal and Diana watched, Peter glanced across to the two of them, and Neal didn't know what Diana saw on Peter's face or in his stance, but she inhaled sharply and turned back to Neal. 

"No way," she repeated flatly. She turned on her heel and stalked off before Neal could find out what she meant. Adrenaline ebbing, he leaned against a stack of wooden crates and hoped like hell she wasn't as good a detective as she seemed.


	31. Chapter 31

El hung up the phone, dropped it on her desk and met Yvonne's querying gaze. "Do you believe in curses?"

"What is it now?"

El didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "That was Gabriel, calling to say that two of his kitchen staff have severe food poisoning."

"You're kidding," said Yvonne. "Are they okay?"

"They're in the hospital, they're stable, and Gabriel's kitchen has been shut down pending a health inspection." El buried her head in her hands. "It's not just the client anymore; I think this banquet might actually be cursed. We either need to perform an exorcism or cut our losses and run away to South America. Change our names, start fresh. Oh, hey, I know someone who could get us fake IDs." The idea of starting over was disturbingly appealing: a clean, simple life in a new city, with no inconvenient awareness of other men. She could take Satchmo with her. And Peter, of course. But Peter wouldn't leave without Neal, and if Neal came, running away wouldn't solve anything. She fished a packet of Tylenol out of her desk drawer and took two.

"Maybe it's karma," called Sandy from the storeroom. She came and leaned in the doorway, hugging her clipboard to her side. "Maybe someone at Wickerton butchered kittens in a past life."

Yvonne held up a finger. "Great theory, except it isn't someone at Wickerton who's suffering—it's us."

"Then Genghis' past crimes must be coming back to haunt us," said Sandy with relish.

"Would you guys focus?" snapped El. "This is serious! We need a new caterer for a five-course banquet for a hundred and thirty-seven people, tomorrow night."

Sandy's grin faded, and Yvonne sat up straighter at her tone. "Did Gabriel suggest an alternative?"

"Turner's, but I ran into Gwen Turner yesterday. She said they're flat out all month." El took a deep breath and forced an apologetic smile. It wasn't the others' fault she'd slept badly, waking just after three and unable to get back to sleep for hours. It wasn't anyone's fault but her own. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just tired. We'll figure this out. Sandy, could you go and get coffee and muffins. Yvonne, you and I are going to call every caterer in New York if we have to."

"Sure," said Yvonne, reached for her phone headset. "You want to start with companies we've used before?"

It took more than two hours and the calling in of half a dozen favors to find a replacement caterer. "I can do it," said Teri, cautiously, "but only if you can get me a couple of extra kitchen hands tomorrow afternoon."

"Done," said El before Teri could change her mind. "Thank you! You're a life saver."

"You owe me," Teri told her. "Things have been frantic lately. Tomorrow was going to be my first day off in three weeks."

"I owe you," confirmed El. "Really. Anything you want." She hung up, relieved, triumphant and resigned to an afternoon of peeling and slicing vegetables, and signaled to Yvonne, who extricated herself from her phone call and hung up. "Teri can do it if we help out."

"Hallelujah," said Yvonne. "I was about to resort to fast food restaurants." She took off her phone headset and reached for her coffee cup. "So, El, I hear you've been getting romantic with a mystery man."

"What?" said El, blankly. Her cheeks heated despite herself, and she hoped it didn't show.

"Cesare Antonopoulos was at the Marlborough Gallery last night, talking to one of his servers—which, knowing Cesare, means he was yelling at her—and he saw you lurking behind a sculpture, making a toast with a beautiful Adonis."

"Cesare only does canapés," said El. "Why did you even call him?"

"You said try everyone." Yvonne leaned forward. "So, who's the Adonis, El?"

"Why do you assume it wasn't my husband?" asked El. "It could have been."

"Peter is a good man, and he's attractive enough, but even you have to admit that Adonis isn't the first word that comes to mind when you see him." Yvonne was clearly enjoying herself. "So?"

It was only a mock interrogation, and El hadn't done anything to raise eyebrows unless she acted guilty now. She didn't even have to lie. "That would be Neal, Peter's consultant. He's a friend. We went to hear Veena Kinnaird speak. She was amazing, by the way."

"Neal, the con artist?" Yvonne's tone made El sorely regret gossiping about Neal when he'd first been released from prison. That was the problem with infamous international men of mystery: they made for good anecdotes.

"He has a boyfriend," called Sandy from the storeroom. "To my eternal woe."

El nodded confirmation. "He does. It was nice of him to escort me. You know Peter—after a long day fighting crime, he just wants to stay home and watch sports on TV. And I could have gone to hear Kinnaird alone, but—" She shrugged and changed the subject before her explanation began to sound like an excuse. "Anyway, Teri needs two of us to help out tomorrow afternoon. That means Sandy and I will be on kitchen duty, and you'll have to oversee the venue setup on your own, okay?"

What Yvonne lacked in knife skills, she made up for with her ability to coax even the most garbled-sounding, feedback-squealing sound system to clarity. And she'd been working with El long enough that she could easily supervise the table arrangements and prep the servers.

"No problem," she said. "Just make sure to keep your phone close in case the banquet curse strikes again."

"Don't even joke about that." El checked her watch. "I'm going out for an hour. Try to keep the world from ending before I get back, please." She grabbed her purse and hurried out. She was late for her appointment, but her family doctor was always running behind, and arriving late would mean less time flicking through magazines in the waiting room, mulling over the muddled state of her emotions. In the months that she'd known Neal, she'd grown to like him, to count on him, maybe even to love him, but it had never been romantic. She'd always known he was attractive, of course, and she'd enjoyed that, but she was a happily married woman, and she'd never wanted him for herself. But after last night—the intimate dinner at the restaurant; spending hours lying awake, aware of him sleeping almost beside her, with Peter like a buffer between them—suddenly she was seeing him not just as a friend, not as Peter's partner and lover, but as a man. 

If she tried, she could still feel the sensation of his thumb brushing across her hand.

Maybe it was a polyamory thing, a reaction to Neal and Peter's relationship, like compersion or misplaced confusion about how their overlapping connections fit together. Vicarious desire. Maybe it would pass. But in the meantime, El thought uneasily, it was hard work pretending everything was normal, playing the part of cheerful wife and friend when beneath the surface she felt stilted and cross with herself. If she wasn't careful, if she let this attraction take root, she could ruin everything.


	32. Chapter 32

Peter watched, hands on hips, as agents bundled Harriet into the back of an SUV. Stealing her ex-husband's ill-gotten art collection was her first offense, and with the dirt she had on Teddy, she'd probably be able to plea bargain out. Peter hoped so—Neal's soft spot for non-violent art thieves was contagious, and Teddy Grissolm had long since had it coming. Peter looked around, checking on Neal, ERT and the agents who were cordoning off the scene. He spotted Diana marching toward him, her lips a straight line and a martial light in her eye.

"Hey, what's up?" Peter greeted her.

"It's you, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You're Neal's mystery woman," said Diana, pissed and uncompromising.

The ground beneath Peter's feet seemed abruptly hollow and treacherous, but there was relief too. Whatever happened next, there'd be no more awkward lies, no more waiting for disaster to fall. Diana had figured it out. Peter ushered her behind a car where they could talk in relative privacy and sent her a helpless look. "How did you know?"

Diana waved that aside. "You're his boss. How could you think it was okay?"

"Di, you have every right to be angry. I wanted to tell you, but—"

"I'm not mad because you didn't tell me, Peter." She stared at him, and a muscle moved in her jaw. "You're sleeping with your CI. That's sexual harassment at best."

"It's not like that," Peter protested. She made it sound ugly. "It's not just about sex. And I would never push Neal into something he didn't want. You know me better than that."

"I thought I did." Diana's anger fractured, leaving her openly upset and disappointed in him, and goddamn, but her disappointment stung. Peter opened his mouth to defend himself, but she didn't give him the chance. "It doesn't matter how it started or why. You have power over him. He wants to please you. It's your responsibility to keep him at arm's length." She stepped back, holding up her hand to keep Peter in place. "You can't ask me to collude in this."

"Do what you have to," said Peter. He let his head drop, half convinced by her argument. Was he abusing his authority and taking advantage of Neal? Was Neal going along with what Peter wanted out of obligation? Peter didn't want to think it, was repulsed by the very idea, but he had to consider the possibility. 

But when he thought through everything that had happened in the last week and a half, he was reassured. There was no question Neal was a willing and eager participant. Neal had chosen to redeem El's offer of a kiss, he'd shown Peter his stash and all but seduced him. He'd been happy. They were partners. And El had borne witness to many of their private moments: she would have told Peter if anything was off. No, this was a love affair—unwise but not abusive. Peter had to believe that. He met Diana's gaze squarely. "Are you going to report me?"

"I don't know," she said. Her anger had washed away, leaving her bleak. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Okay," said Peter. "Think about it. Talk to Neal if you want." He wouldn't ask her to lie for him, however much he might want to; she had to decide for herself how to balance principle and loyalty. He didn't envy her the decision, and either way, he wouldn't hold it against her, whatever the outcome. She started to turn away. "Diana," he said, stopping her in her tracks. "I'm sorry to have put you in this position."

Her gaze was shuttered. "I'm sorry too."

"But I have to ask you something else: if I lose my job, I want you to take over as Neal's handler."

"Peter—" Diana frowned.

"He's on parole. I can't have him go back to prison because of me." Peter was chilled by the very real possibility as he said it. "Someone at the Bureau has to take him on, and I don't know who else would if there was a scandal. Please."

Diana huffed a sharp sigh. "I'll think about it."

She turned on her heel and left, and Peter resisted the urge to give Neal a head's up. If anyone could satisfy Diana's concerns, it was Neal, with or without warning. Peter had to trust that somehow Neal would find a way to reassure her, convince her that not being free, he was nonetheless freely consenting.

Unfortunately, optimism had never been Peter's strong suit.


	33. Chapter 33

Neal covertly kept tabs on Diana and Peter's exchange. He saw her, stiff with indignation, approach Peter, and when they went behind a car to talk, Neal strolled closer and ducked into the crevice between car and wall, flattened himself against the back of the vehicle out of sight of them and the crime scene, so he could listen in with a sinking heart. Diana was upset and openly outraged, but less predictably, she wasn't giving Peter the benefit of the doubt. That was a bad sign. Their exchange ended with Peter apologizing for putting her in a difficult position, and Neal backed off again quickly before Diana noticed him lurking. She would talk to him next, no doubt. He could act then to soothe her misgivings.

He went and loitered at the edge of the dock in the sun, looking out at the greasy gray waves, planning what to say. He still didn't know how, but it was his fault she'd found out. He had to fix this and fast.

"Caffrey," said Diana from behind him. "We need to talk."

Neal presented an innocent front. "What about?"

"Peter told me the truth, so you can stop with the smoke and mirrors," she said, flat and controlled. "I know you're sleeping together."

Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and kept his stance casual. "And?" 

She sighed and jerked her head toward her car, and Neal nodded and followed. He expected them to get in and continue their conversation, but Diana started the vehicle and drove them out onto the road, heading for downtown. 

"Are you all right?" she asked, after a few minutes, and Neal realized she wasn't just disapproving; she was concerned for him.

"You're not going to give me the 'if you hurt him, I'll kill you speech'?" He caught her eye. "I'm better than all right."

Diana turned her attention back to the road and scowled through the windshield. "This isn't a joke. You're not the first person I know whose boss has hit on them, okay?"

"Seriously? Peter didn't hit on me." In spite of the gravity of the situation, Neal couldn't help smirking at the idea. Peter wouldn't know where to start.

But Diana brushed that aside impatiently. "I don't care who started it, you or Peter, it—"

"Actually, it was Elizabeth."

Diana slowed to a stop at a yellow light and stared at him. "Elizabeth?"

"Peter's wife."

"Neal, what the hell is going on?" Diana shook her head in disbelief.

Neal took out his wallet and fished the worn IOU note from the lining. He handed it to her and watched while she read. "Peter didn't know. He was in the hospital recovering from digitalis poisoning."

"That was months ago. How long has this been going on?"

"You have a green light," said Neal, taking back the note and tucking it away again. He waited until Diana put the car back in motion. "Haven't you ever held onto a lottery ticket because the fantasy of winning is a lot more fun to live with than finding out for sure that you haven't? But then last week Keller took Peter, and after that—fantasies weren't enough anymore. I needed to know." He studied Diana's implacable profile. "Look, Peter is not the bad guy here. If you really need someone to blame, make it me. Say I'm jeopardizing Peter's career for my own selfish ends."

"Caffrey, it's not up to you," said Diana, exasperated.

"Why not?" said Neal reasonably. "You know I'm a more likely villain than Peter." 

"Just stop, okay? I don't know what I know anymore." She pulled into a parking space outside the Bureau, turned off the ignition and looked at him. She was still frustrated and indignant, but Neal thought that under that he detected a hint of reassurance, as if his side of the story had convinced her the circumstances weren't as black and white as they'd first appeared. 

Neal met her gaze. "Please."

He could see her wavering, and he held his breath.

"I have to think about it," she said at last.


	34. Chapter 34

El emerged from her doctor's appointment even more irritable than when she entered, but at least there weren't any tidings of fresh disaster when she checked her phone, so she decided to evade her responsibilities a little longer and see if Peter was free for lunch. He'd probably bring Neal, and that would be a chance for El to inure herself in a neutral setting and confirm who they were for each other—more than friends, less than lovers.

But before she could speed dial Peter, someone touched her shoulder. "Elizabeth." It was Neal, slightly out of breath. "Sorry, I tracked your cellphone. I had to see you."

Excitement fluttered in her belly and her cheeks grew warm, but although on the surface he looked as confident and in control as ever, not a hair out of place, at second glance she could tell something was wrong and it wasn't about her. His posture was too perfect, and the tension running through his frame made him seem brittle and distant. "What happened?" said El. "Is Peter all right?"

"Peter's fine." Neal straightened his shoulders even more. "Diana figured out what's going on, but you don't have to worry. I'll handle it."

"Oh, god." El shook her head to ward off this new catastrophe. The petty frustrations of the banquet and El's inability to find a confidante, even the problem of her newfound attraction to Neal paled with the abrupt reminder of how precious and precarious their arrangement was, how easily and quickly it could be ripped away, and the consequences if the worst happened. Peter and Neal could lose everything. She could lose them together. Neal could be sent back to prison. She gripped his arm. "Do you have a plan? How can I help?"

"I'm working on it." Neal flashed a Cheshire smile that was probably intended to reassure and shepherded her out of the endless stream of pedestrians to a nearby park where they could talk. They sat on a bench under an oak tree, a few dry leaves scattered across the path. "Peter wouldn't want you dragged into it."

"It affects me too, you know that. I'm already in it. What did Diana say?"

Neal looked set to prevaricate, so El pinned him with a firm gaze until he tilted his head in capitulation. "She blames Peter," he said smoothly. "I didn't think she'd turn on him like this, but she's worried he's abusing his power over me."

El could imagine. From the outside it would seem shocking, distance obscuring the important truth that Peter and Neal loved each other. But the idea of anyone—especially anyone who knew him—regarding Peter as a predator was unthinkable. El's hands tightened into fists automatically.

Neal shook his head. "That's not why I'm here. I came to apologize."

"For?"

"I miscalculated."

"That's not like you," said El. She searched his face, and behind his con man's bravado she caught a glimpse of real fear that tugged at her heartstrings, reminding her of the losses he'd already faced in the last year. Instinctively, she set her other feelings aside and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm to comfort him. She wouldn't let his relationship with Peter be added to that list. "What did you do?"

"I showed her your IOU for the kiss from Peter. I was trying to reframe it away from the Bureau, and Peter and my working relationship. Unfortunately—" He grimaced. "—it also implicated you. Sorry."

El shrugged that off. "It didn't convince her?"

It was a redundant question, but Neal answered anyway. "Seems I underestimated the righteousness of her indignation," he said lightly. His gaze focused on her with gathering intensity, making her heart clench, and he covered her hand with his own. "Elizabeth, if it does go bad, I want you to know—"

"We'll figure it out," she interrupted gently, forestalling his gratitude or any eulogy for their friendship. She took her hand back before she could give herself away. "Where's Peter?"

Neal shook his head, the intensity transforming into something else, closed and determined. "We got separated at the crime scene. He knows Diana knows, but I haven't spoken to him since."

"Okay," said El. "Find him and make sure he's all right. Make a plan. I have to get back to work, I'm afraid, but I'll check in soon to see how it's going."

"I'm sorry," said Neal, and there was almost no veneer at all now. "It's my fault."

"It's not your fault Diana's such a good detective. She was trained by the best," El reminded him. "Try not to worry, sweetie. She was probably in shock; she knows Peter too well to think the worst of him for long." El hoped that was true. "I'm sorry, I really have to go."

Neal saw her into a cab, and she left him standing on the curb looking after her. As soon as she was on the move, she called Diana. "Can we talk?"

Diana guardedly agreed, and El gave the taxi driver the new directions. She was interfering, and Peter wouldn't be happy about it. Even Neal would have tried to dissuade her, to shelter her from Diana's wrath. But love, loyalty and lateral problem solving all dictated El do what she could. Her husband and her friend needed character references and a champion, and no power on earth was going to stop her from rising to the occasion.


	35. Chapter 35

Peter arrived back at the Bureau trying to feel confident in Neal's ability to sway Diana, but unable to keep his fears at bay. Surely if Neal had convinced her, they'd be back by now, and there was no sign of them. Both their desks were empty.

The rest of the team was bustling with the administrative aftermath of the case. Peter went up to the mezzanine on autopilot, into his office. He couldn't bring himself to sit down, so he stared out the window and thought about calling El. He should tell her what had happened, but she was frazzled enough with her banquet; he didn't want to worry her until he knew Diana's decision, one way or the other.

There was a low cough behind him, making him start, and he turned to find Jones standing just inside the doorway, dangling Neal's anklet from his finger. 

"Hey, Peter. Now the case is wrapped up, you want me to put Caffrey's anklet back on?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Jones." There was no other answer Peter could give. It was another blow to the cozy delusion of security that had built up over the last few days. Even if Diana didn't bring the Bureau authorities down on them, once Neal was back in his tracker they'd have to be careful again. No more liaisons at the Mulberry Street hotel or sleepovers at Peter's house; no more intense, hurried morning sex in the shower. No more pretending they were equals before the law, that Neal could come and go as he pleased. Within the hour, Neal would be back on the radar, the marshals' gaze a subtle shadow falling across everything they did. Peter resented it as he never had before, but he couldn't do anything legally or ethically to change it.

"Everything okay?" asked Jones. There was nothing knowing in his tone, just casual curiosity.

Peter shuffled the papers on his desk. "Fine, fine." His cell phone rang, and he glanced up. "Do you mind?"

Jones nodded and closed the door after him.

Peter answered his phone. "Neal, where are you?"

"Mulberry Street, room 307," said Neal. "Can you get away?"

"Now?" This was hardly the time for daytime trysts, but then, Neal must know that, and they did need to talk. Peter looked down on the office, Neal and Diana's empty desks. "I'll be there in five."

 

*

 

It was a different room number, but the layout and décor were identical. It even smelled the same. Bland cookie-cutter hotel rooms. Guests were supposed to be too occupied to notice the ugly industrial carpet.

Neal answered the door when Peter knocked, and if the tiny part of Peter's brain that had anticipated a seduction was disappointed by his fully dressed state, the rest of him was too busy figuring out what was going on. Of course, he could always ask.

"Jones is looking for you. Neal, are you on the run?"

Neal gave one of his small glib shrugs. "One last off-the-radar liaison before I'm back in chains."

"There'll be other cases," Peter promised, moving closer. "The anklet's not a permanent fixture."

"I know," said Neal. "And we don't have to do anything. I just needed to see you in private."

"You talked to Diana," translated Peter, his spirits sinking. Going by the gravity of Neal's expression, the conversation hadn't gone well.

Neal raised his chin and put his shoulders back, assuming an air of cool confidence. "I'll handle her. You don't have to worry."

Peter stepped in and put his arms around Neal, drawing him close but just holding him, no pressure, keenly aware of the palpable tension humming through Neal's body like an electrical current. When Neal hugged back, his hands spreading across Peter's back, the tight knot in the pit of Peter's stomach that had formed at Diana's initial accusation finally loosened. "You know she's right," said Peter quietly. "We shouldn't be doing this—"

"No, Peter." Neal's grip tightened convulsively, and then he pushed Peter far enough away that they could look at each other, Neal's gaze shocked. "No. You're not backing out now. You can't."

"You didn't let me finish," said Peter. "We shouldn't be doing this, but I can't give you up." The deepening of their relationship had begun out of Elizabeth's generosity, but it had been Peter's choice and he was committed. Neal had a legitimate claim on him in his own right now; they belonged to each other as surely as Peter belonged to El. Peter stepped back, unclipped the badge from his belt and weighed it in his hand. "Whatever it takes."

Neal shook his head. "You're panicking. It hasn't come to that."

"If it's what it takes to keep you out of prison."

"It's your job. It's your _life_." Neal surged forward and kissed him, breathing hard. "There's another way."

"What?" Peter couldn't think of one, not without coercing Diana into staying silent.

"I don't know yet, but I'll think of something." Neal took Peter's badge and looked from it to Peter's face. "God, Peter." He sounded appalled and slightly awed.

It was strange to see the badge in Neal's hands, stranger still for Peter not to have it on his person. He felt lighter, untethered, and wondered if this was how Neal felt without the anklet. Peter toed off his shoes and went to sit on the edge of the bed. "I'll tell Hughes everything. No more secrets. If we're lucky, he'll bump me down to Bank Fraud like Jack Franklin, and Diana can take over your supervision."

"Lucky," repeated Neal flatly. "That's not my idea of a best case scenario. Look, we need to give Diana some time to cool off and then I'll talk to her again. I'll convince her there's no reason to make a big deal about it. Or let me bring Moz in—between us, we can figure this out."

Peter shook his head. "Not if it means forcing Diana to go against her principles. I'll do whatever it takes to be with you, Neal, but I have to pay the price for that, not her."

Neal sat next to Peter, turning so they were face to face. His gaze narrowed. "You're glad we got caught."

"No." The risks were far too great, and it was going to take a lot to earn back Diana's trust. This wasn't something to celebrate.

Neal poked him in the chest. "But?"

Peter caught his hand. "There are worse things than having to tell the truth." Neal looked profoundly unconvinced, which made Peter smirk, despite everything. "Do what's right—"

Neal cut him off with a kiss, blatantly intended to shut him up, and Peter surrendered to it, to Neal. He let himself be pushed back onto the anonymous bed and hauled into Neal's arms, but rather than ramping things up and seducing him, Neal seemed content for them to lie together, holding each other close. The world, which had been spinning too fast, gradually slowed, and eventually Neal raised his head from Peter's shoulder and said, "Just promise me you'll talk to Diana again before you do anything stupid."

"Before _I_ do anything stupid?" Peter teased.

"Hey, I don't have a monopoly on stupid."

"Come here." 

Neal lowered his head and touched his lips softly to Peter's, and it might have been Peter's imagination, but it seemed as if the kiss was pleading for reassurance—that it wouldn't end here, they'd find a way.

Peter brushed his thumb along the line Neal's jaw, making the promise as much with his hands and his heart as his words. "I'll call her."


	36. Chapter 36

El had always liked Diana, but she strode into the museum café where they'd arranged to meet ready for battle. Peter had Diana's allegiance and respect—or he had up until now—and Diana still wouldn't listen to him; Neal was a world class con artist and he hadn't been able to persuade her. It was going to take all of El's ingenuity, conviction and people management skills to save the day. She'd been rehearsing her arguments in the taxi on the way over, circling the basic truth of Peter and Neal's feelings.

But Diana was sitting by the glass wall that faced onto the museum foyer, nursing a cup of coffee and a half-eaten cookie, looking tired and grim and not at all in the mood to buy into a love story. El's heart went out to her, despite herself. Diana raised her chin as El approached the table and sat down, and in place of a greeting, she asked, "Who sent you?" 

"No one sent me," said El, calmly. Diana looked skeptical, so she clarified. "Neal told me what happened, but he doesn't know I'm here."

Diana nodded, but her expression was hard and proud. She was hurt. 

El took a deep breath and released it, forcing herself to let go of her agenda, her logic and her plan. The only way through this was to put their fate in Diana's hands and trust, and that meant truly listening and being willing to see things from Diana's point of view. "You're angry," said El. "I get that. Peter let you down."

"Damn right, I'm angry," said Diana, her voice low and furious. "What was he thinking, sleeping with his CI? It's inexcusable."

"I don't think any of us were thinking clearly," said El. "I'm really sorry, Diana. It's as much my fault as anyone's that this started, and I didn't think about how it would affect you."

"It's not about me. It about Peter betraying the Bureau's trust, Neal's trust. You didn't do that, Peter did. Peter, of all people."

El wanted to argue the point—Neal's trust had never been in jeopardy—but she swallowed it down, telling herself not to be defensive. Diana was right; Peter's actions looked bad. "It is a betrayal," El allowed—to the Bureau, at least. "He should be beyond reproach, and now you know he's as fallible as any of us. But, you know, he would never have started it if I hadn't encouraged him—neither of them would—and once they let themselves think about it—" El gave a faint, rueful smile. "Well, you must know how they feel about each other. It's like trying to hold back the tide."

"They're not Romeo and Juliet," said Diana testily.

"Well, no, they're not teenagers," said El. "But they're not the first adults to break the rules for love, either."

Diana sighed impatiently, but she drank a mouthful of coffee before she answered. "You know what I really don't get—why did you agree to it? I mean, you're not—Is it the three of you?"

"No. No, it's me and Peter, and Peter and Neal. A vee-shape." El ducked her head. "If you'd asked me yesterday, I'd have said it was because they care about each other and I care about them. Because it seemed like an adventure. Because I didn't think it would hurt anyone. Now—" This was absolutely the wrong time to say it. She was muddying the waters, confiding when she should be sympathizing. But the truth slipped out anyway. "Now I don't know. I think I might have had an ulterior motive."

Diana raised an eyebrow.

"Neal—I care about him a lot," El confessed. Saying it aloud made her breathless. "And I don't want it to be like that. I don't want to be attracted to him. It's too complicated, and I already have Peter. But—" She shrugged and raised her gaze, expecting condemnation.

If anything, Diana had softened. She huffed under her breath and said, "I've seen enough messed-up behavior in my life that I can say this for a fact: we don't get to choose who we're attracted to. Our only choice is what we do about it."

"Yeah," said El, disappointed. She'd wanted Diana to say, _He's Neal. Everyone falls for him at first. Don't worry, you'll get over it._ But El wasn't Sandy, seeing him for the first time, or Maddy who'd only met Neal's alias. El knew Neal. She loved him for who he was. Oh god, she _loved_ him.

"There are good choices and bad choices." Diana shook her head and looked through the window into the gallery for a long minute. El set aside the revelation of her own feelings and sat with her, giving her time. She didn't think Diana was seeing the clusters of tourists or the three mothers pushing strollers. Finally, Diana leaned forward in her seat and sighed. "Last year Christie had a situation with one of the administrators at the hospital where she worked in DC. It got pretty ugly, counter-allegations and name-calling. Management handled it badly."

"I didn't know that," said El, appalled. "Is Christie okay?"

"She is now. It took her a while to get mad." Diana looked somber. "That wasn't a good time for us. They settled out of court, and the settlement included a gag order. She couldn't talk to anyone."

"That's really hard for both of you." El knew first-hand how isolating secrecy could be, even without the distress and anger of harassment. 

"I guess this thing with Peter and Neal—it reminded me." She let out a long, deep sigh and then shook her head wryly. "Neal said if I needed there to be a bad guy, it should be him. Typical Caffrey, throwing himself in the line of fire." She looked at El, her gaze open, her moral absolutes replaced with genuine connection and concern. "You really think it's what he wants?"

"I'm sure of it," said El. The reality of what was at stake came rushing back, leaving her light-headed and giddy, her life and Peter's and Neal's all balanced on a knife edge.

"Well, if there's one thing I know about Neal, it's that he can talk his way into or out of just about anything," said Diana, breaking off a piece of cookie and eating it. She sounded almost indulgent now.

El gave a small grin, and then added sincerely over a burst of static from café's the espresso machine, "Diana, I have to thank you. I've been dying for someone to talk to, and even in the middle of all this—thanks for listening."

"You too," said Diana. "I haven't been able to tell anyone about what happened with Christie."

"And it just ends up going around and around your head with no outlet," said El. "Believe me, I get it. You know, I just told my doctor I cheated on Peter, so I could get tested. She didn't even ask—I just blurted it out. And I can't tell you how much I hate that it was easier to say I cheated than to tell the truth: we have another person in our marriage."

Diana's eyes widened. "You got tested? So, wait—" She held up her hands. "No, never mind. I don't want to know."

El laughed at her expression, and the strangeness of talking to a lesbian about her sex life that, by some definitions, involved two men. "It's not like it sounds, I swear."

"I'll take your word for it," said Diana. "So long as—" Her phone buzzed, interrupting her, and she pulled it out, checked the display, then met El's eye as she answered it. "Peter. No, I'm not in the office."


	37. Chapter 37

On the short drive back to the office, Neal entertained numerous fantasies of staging elaborate, daring rescues, being a hero so Diana would have to give him whatever he wanted. The problem was he'd already saved Peter from digitalis and Keller. Maybe he needed to save Diana this time. He wished Peter would let him talk to Mozzie and come up with a plan. They wouldn't necessarily have to compromise Diana—Neal was sure they could convince her of the virtue of his and Peter's being lovers, if only they had an hour or two to figure out a better angle of attack. But it wasn't to be.

He and Peter pushed through the glass double doors of the twenty-first floor together, and Neal scooped a minor case file from his in-tray on the way past. It would provide cover if anyone wondered why they were lurking in the conference room, it would give them something to do while they waited for Diana, and plying Peter with case work was the best publicly acceptable way of stopping him from freaking out.

As they headed for the stairs, Jones whistled and held up the anklet. Neal's step faltered, and he looked to Peter who gave a small grimace. Neal sighed and detoured to have his shackle restored. 

The plastic was hard and implacable, the lower edge riding his ankle bone uncomfortably even through his sock. It felt like an omen. Neal shook his pant leg back into place, covering it, creating the illusion of autonomy.

"Harriet Grissolm's lawyer is here," Jones told Peter.

"They can wait a little longer." Peter continued up to the mezzanine, and Neal nodded to Jones and followed.

"You okay?" asked Peter, when they reached the conference room.

"What? Of course." Neal smiled, determined not to infect Peter with foreboding. They had enough to deal with. He opened the case file. "Did you see Sharp and Vittachi's Chairman of the Board has a police record?"

"You think it was an inside job?" Peter came to read over his shoulder. He was standing no closer than he had a thousand times before, but when Diana walked in a few seconds later, he gave a guilty start and practically jumped away.

Neal mentally smacked his palm to his forehead and fixed his attention on Diana. Her gaze was clear and open, her posture relaxed. She was still serious, but something had shifted; she wasn't burning with anger anymore.

Peter was caught in his own discomfort and hadn't noticed. "Diana, you were right," he said heavily. "I have a duty to the Bureau, and I didn't live up to it. I'm going to come clean to Hughes. I just hope you can forgive—"

"Peter," Diana interrupted. "You don't have to do that."

Peter blinked. "I don't?"

"If you tell Hughes, he'll have to move you out of White Collar, at minimum. He won't have a choice." Diana folded her arms. "Look, I've thought about it, and I'm willing to turn a blind eye—"

Neal sagged against the windowsill, weak with relief. 

Diana regarded them both. "—on three conditions."

"What are they?" asked Peter.

Diana turned to Neal. "First off, you ever want out or just need to talk, you can come to me."

Neal nodded. "It's not necessary, but I appreciate it."

"The offer stands. Secondly—" Her gaze swung back to Peter. "—Caffrey has a tracking anklet for a reason. You can't remove it whenever it suits you."

"That was for a case," Neal objected.

"He was undercover," said Peter at the same time.

Diana raised an eyebrow at Peter. "I'm talking about Sunday evening through Monday morning. You're telling me that was work-related?"

Peter's shoulders twitched guiltily.

"The anklet's a requirement of his parole," said Diana. "And if you keep taking it off, someone's going to notice."

"Fair enough." Peter looked subdued.

"What's the third thing?" asked Neal.

"Stop taking stupid risks," said Diana bluntly. "The hotel in Mulberry Street? What happens next time we request they hand over security footage and they recognize one of you? You're opening yourselves up to blackmail, and you're compromising our ability to do our jobs. Neal chose the relationship so I'll cover for you, but only if you keep it in private and off the clock."

Peter nodded. "You're right. Sorry."

"I get it," said Diana. "Just because I choose to be out, doesn't mean I don't understand why it's necessary to be discreet sometimes. And though I still think you shouldn't have started this—" She gestured between Peter and Neal. "I know you can't turn it off like a switch. Just be smarter about it."

"Diana, I could kiss you," said Neal.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't push your luck."

Neal grinned. "You were pretty mad before. What changed your mind?"

"I talked to El," said Diana.

"You called my wife?" A frown flickered across Peter's face.

"She called me."

Peter tilted his head, doing the math, and his gaze slid to Neal. "You told her what happened. Why?"

"I had to," said Neal. He'd had to apologize for bringing her name into it, and he'd needed to see her in case it was the last time, to tell her how he felt. She'd stopped him before he could get the words out, but then she'd risen up like a force of nature and saved them anyway. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I said we'd be fine. I didn't ask her to help."

"It's Elizabeth. You didn't need to ask." Peter's expression said they'd revisit the subject later in private, and he started to apologize to Diana again, but she gave a quick shake of her head to stop him. 

"Oh, one more thing," she said. "This isn't a condition, but you should tell Jones."

"Why would we do that?" said Neal. It seemed an unnecessary risk, and it would put Jones in the same compromised position as Diana.

Diana wrinkled her nose. "Because he's not stupid, and because I'm like Peter—when it comes to people I know, I'm not that good of a liar. If you guys don't give yourselves away, chances are I will."

"Wow, it's almost as if the whole White Collar division needs remedial lessons in deception," muttered Neal.

"Neal?" Peter sought his attention. They conferred in a silent exchange of glances while Diana looked on. After a brief negotiation, Neal shrugged: if Peter wanted to tell the truth, they might as well rip off all the Band-Aids at once. Now Diana had come around, Neal hoped Jones would follow her lead. Peter pressed his lips together, nodded and went to the conference room door. "Jones, could you come up here a minute."

A second later Jones jogged up the stairs. "What's up?" He looked at all of their faces in turn and put his hands on his hips. "Is something wrong?"

Neal figured he should be the one to say it. "Remember at drinks on Wednesday you asked if I was seeing anyone? Well, I am. It's Peter."

"You're kidding." Jones looked at Peter. "He's kidding."

Peter didn't reply. He didn't need to.

Jones' jaw dropped. "I thought—What about Elizabeth?"

"She knows," said Diana.

"I know it's a lot to take in," said Peter. "We wanted to tell you before you found out some other way. If you have any concerns, I'll listen, and if you feel you have to report me, I understand."

"Please don't," murmured Neal. 

Jones considered him, and Neal stuck his hands in his pockets and submitted to the scrutiny. Eventually the corner of Jones' mouth twitched, and he looked at Peter. "Should've known Caffrey wouldn't settle for less, after being in love with you all this time. You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Yeah." Peter sounded quietly certain, almost proud. "I'm sure."

Jones shook his head as if the whole situation were too weird for words. He turned to Diana. "What about the money?"

"What money?" asked Peter.

Neal snickered as he realized what Jones meant. "There really was a sweepstake."

"It's only about twenty bucks," said Diana.

"Give it to Peter," said Neal, still grinning. "I mean, technically he won."

Diana shot him a withering glance. "We either pick a winner out of a hat, or it goes to charity."

Neal considered mentioning that Mozzie ran several registered charities, a couple of them even legit, but discretion was the better part of valor. Moz wouldn't thank him for calling attention to his ventures.

Apparently Peter was thinking along discretion-valor lines too. "If that's all, I have to go and interview Harriet Grissolm."

"Her lawyer arrived twenty minutes ago," said Jones, checking his watch. He appeared to have assimilated the news of Peter and Neal's relationship and moved on without a second thought. Now there was someone who could keep a secret. 

"Okay," said Peter. His voice strengthened as he assumed his role as head of the team. "Diana, Jones, my door's always open. And thank you both. Neal, I think you have a field report to write."

Neal caught his eye and felt the warmth of their connection. Peter's eyes crinkled at the corners, showing he felt it too. It had been a painful and risky couple of hours, but Peter was infinitely more at ease with the situation now that his top people were in the know. He and Neal were good and, okay, Neal was back in the anklet, but on the upside, it was nearly the weekend. 

"Yes, sir," said Neal with a wink, and he went down to this desk to order a bouquet of irises to be sent to Burke Premier Events. He would have liked to send something more fitting—priceless art or jewelry, say—but he didn't want to make Elizabeth uncomfortable or raise questions in Peter's mind. Flowers were a friendly gesture. They'd do, at least for now.


	38. Chapter 38

The edge of El's phone dug into her palm as she and Yvonne went over the seating plan with Louise from Wickerton. It had been half an hour since Diana headed back to the office, and El wasn't wrestling with the compulsion to blurt out details of her love life anymore—confiding in Diana had released some of the pressure, even if El's epiphany about her feelings did complicate things immensely—but she was going out of her mind wondering what Diana and Peter were saying to each other. 

"What do you think, El?" said Yvonne, and El dragged her attention back to the banquet discussion. She had no idea what was being proposed. 

"That sounds fine," she answered vaguely, and then caught Yvonne's alarmed eyebrows, and added smoothly, "but it might be tricky to arrange at this stage. I'll look into it and get back to you, okay?" 

Louise looked disappointed. Yvonne looked relieved.

El leafed through the list of guests in front of her, each marked with a table number, and a name jumped out at her. "Madeline Dentworth," she read, glancing up at Louise. "Who is she?"

"You don't know Maddy?" Louise shook her head. "She has an enormous trust fund and a keen interest in the arts. A finger in every pie, you know the type. Stunning art collection, exquisite taste."

"Mmm," said El noncommittally, wondering how many of her past events Maddy had attended, how many other old connections of Neal's she'd hosted unaware. El usually managed her events from behind the scenes, but even so, she was lucky Maddy hadn't recognized her at the Marlborough the night before. Sometimes New York felt so small, it was stifling. 

Luckily, her phone rang before Louise could ask why she was asking. It was Peter. El excused herself and took the call into the store room.

"Hey, hon," she said, braced for catastrophe. "What happened?"

"You went to Diana." His voice was steady, and she couldn't tell if it was good news or bad.

"I couldn't stand by and let her think terrible things about my husband, could I?" said El reasonably. "So?"

"So thank you," said Peter. "Whatever you said to her, it worked. She's agreed to keep our secret."

"Oh, thank god." El took a deep breath. The air was sweet in her lungs, and they were going to be okay. Well, they would be if she could sort out her feelings, but first she had to survive this banquet. "Listen, hon, that's great news. I want to hear all about it, and I know we talked earlier in the week about going somewhere fancy for dinner tonight, but the Wickerton banquet is imploding, and I'm going to have to work late. Give Neal my apologies, okay?"

"Okay." Peter's voice was a fond, supportive rumble. "Good luck with your dinner. Knock 'em dead."

El hoped the curse wouldn't take that literally. God help her, she was actually starting to believe in it. "Thanks."

"Thank you," said Peter again. "Oh, and hon? We closed the case, so the anklet's back on. I was thinking—okay if I see you tomorrow?"

"Sounds good," said El, determinedly cheerful. "How about brunch? But then I'm on kitchen duty, so you'll have to take care of Satchmo yourselves. Things will be back to normal on Sunday, I promise." Whatever normal was these days.

 

*

 

In the end, El didn't have to work as late as she'd feared. Yvonne had a good grip on the setup requirements, and there wasn't much prep El and Sandy could do in advance for their role as kitchen hands. She arrived home with takeout shortly after eight to a somewhat desperate greeting from Satch. "Ten minutes," she told the dog. "I have to change my clothes and eat first."

She went to the kitchen to get a fork and stopped in the doorway. The plates and mugs from that morning had made it into the dishwasher, but the rest of the breakfast trappings were still clustered on the counter by the microwave—Neal's muesli slumming it next to Peter's and El's cereal boxes. On impulse, El opened the muesli packet, poured herself a small bowl—not so much that anyone would notice it missing—and added milk. She could reheat her takeout later.

For a novice Goldilocks, she lucked out on the first try: the muesli was sweet, crunchy and healthy tasting with rolled oats, dried fruit and even toasted almond slivers that had probably been hand-sliced by forest-dwelling German muesli artisans.

Satch snuffled impatiently, and followed El when she took her bowl upstairs to eat while she changed into jeans. It had been a long, difficult day, and she was distracted by a dozen banquet-related things, so it wasn't until she found herself standing in the middle of her bedroom that she registered the real significance of Neal's being back in his tracking anklet.

His bed was gone, the master bedroom restored to its traditional configuration. His toothbrush and shaving kit had vanished from the bathroom. And when she checked the guest room, Neal's clothes, the few books he'd brought with him, all of his effects had been wiped away. 

The house felt different. She'd always enjoyed being home alone, but now there was something missing—not Neal's presence, so much as proof that he'd be back. That he belonged here. Bereft, she sat on the edge of the guest bed, her bowl gripped tightly in both hands. Even the bed sheets were fresh and unused. She wondered if he'd gone so far as to wipe for prints.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. The fucking tracking anklet. All these huge emotions she didn't want to name or deal with. Peter, potentially caught in the middle.

She was in love with Neal, and however much she pushed it aside and decided to deal with it later, it kept pushing back. Sooner or later, she'd have to tell Peter. Would he let it slip to Neal? The thought made her feel incredibly vulnerable. But then, maybe it would be better to have it out in the open. Neal had flirted with her as he did with everyone, and he obviously considered her a benefactor and a friend. He was used to people finding him attractive. It wouldn't shock him. 

Maybe he'd be flattered. 

El glared down at her soggy muesli, her pride pre-emptively stung. And then Satch shoved his nose onto her lap, making imploring puppy eyes at her, and she snorted. There was one male she could always rely on. And she had Peter. And Diana had agreed not to report them. Things could be so much worse. 

She'd walk Satchmo and count her blessings, and then come back, eat her takeout and have an early night like a sane, self-possessed adult, that's what she'd do.

 

*

 

The living room light was on when she and Satch returned. El hurried inside, expecting Peter, with or without Neal in tow, but instead she found Mozzie reclining on the couch, drinking her wine and reading _The Brothers Karamazov_ while Sophie the Squirrel watched him from the coffee table. 

El stared, confounded.

He looked up from his book. "Mrs. Suit. How fares your ship of fools?"

"Moz, what are you doing here?"

He sat up and poured her a glass of wine about half the size of his own, then slid it across the table toward her. "June had a benefit, and although Neal has returned to the fold, his door is locked. I could circumvent the lock, of course, but I noticed the Suitmobile lurking at the curb and feared I'd never be able to mentally erase whatever debauchery I might stumble upon."

El breathed a dry laugh and instantly felt better. It was good Mozzie was here. It would stop her from wallowing. She moved Sophie back to the safety of the bookshelf, well out of Satchmo's reach, and went to reheat her dinner and feed the dog.

She was in the middle of spooning steaming pad thai onto a plate when her cell phone rang, and she didn't bother to check the display. "Hello?"

"El, I am so, so sorry," said a familiar voice. "Soooo sorry."

"Sandy, what did you do?"

"So sorry," said Sandy. She sounded as if she were on the move. "I have to go to Buffalo. Tonight. For the weekend. My grandmother's caregiver quit, and they can't get a replacement until Monday, and my parents are in Oregon for a wedding, and there's literally no one else I can ask."

"Oh," said El. "That's okay."

"It's the banquet curse," said Sandy darkly. "And you know, I was really looking forward to being a kitchen hand. I wanted to be a chef when I was a little girl, after my astronaut phase but before I decided to be a paleontologist. It was going to be fun." She huffed. "Instead I have to catch a bus, like, now. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," said El. "Really. We'll manage. Go, take care of your grandmother."

"Thanks, El. You're the best. Good luck with the feast that dare not speak its name." Sandy disconnected, and El took her pad thai into the living room. 

"Trouble at mill?" asked Mozzie in a strange accent, when he saw her face.

"Hmm?" El sat next to him on the couch and drank a mouthful of wine. "I don't suppose there's a chance you're free tomorrow afternoon to save my professional reputation by chopping vegetables and making bouillabaisse with me?"

"I wish I could," said Moz, accepting her scenario without comment, "but I'm meeting a supplier tomorrow afternoon, and it's not the kind of meeting that's open to rescheduling, if you know what I mean. You should ask Neal. Did you know he once worked as a sous chef at Babbo?"

El dug into her pad thai. "I thought it was Trattoria Dell'Arte."

Mozzie assumed a general air of vagueness. "Oh, maybe it was. I can't really remember."

El suspected it was both and probably several other places besides. She grinned at him. "What was the scam?"

From his seat, Mozzie conducted a thorough visual sweep of the room for hidden microphones and cameras, or federal agents skulking by the fireplace. "Hypothetically," he said, "it may have involved engineering the opportunity to appropriate a number of rare bottles of wine from various commercial collections, resulting in the ability of certain parties to trade a case of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild for a highly elusive key code."

"Were you successful?" asked El. As if there were any doubt. But she couldn't remember any reports of such thefts, and she said so.

"The best heists are the ones where the treasure is never missed," pronounced Mozzie. "Anyway, the point is if you need a kitchen hand, you should ask Neal."

"I'll be fine," said El, baulking at the suggestion. She smiled, infusing her sunny determination with innocent thoughts of puppies and chocolate cake.

It didn't fool Moz. He slid his glasses onto the top of his head and stared at her owlishly. "Remember you still owe me a question?"

El nodded, widening her eyes to convey compliance. She resisted the urge to wipe her palms on her jeans. He couldn't possibly know.

"What's going on with you and Neal?" 

El dropped her gaze to the remains of her meal and licked her lips guiltily. "Did he say something was going on?" It was a faint hope, instantly squashed.

"No," said Moz.

"Oh." El put down her plate and sat back on the couch, holding her wineglass like a shield. She was bound by their agreement and had to answer. "You can't tell," she said.

"Who?"

"Neal." El scrunched up her face. "Or anyone. I've fallen in love with him."

Mozzie blinked at her, clearly expecting more. When she didn't provide, he prompted, "And—? I'm guessing from the shroud of secrecy, you don't think it's mutual."

"He and Peter are in their honeymoon phase, you know that. They only have eyes for each other." She sighed. "There's Peter to consider—I don't know how he'd feel about it. And even if Neal were prepared to, I don't know, accommodate me? I don't want to be 'buy one, get one free.'"

"A handy two-pack. You have to admit it would be convenient," Mozzie observed.

"I don't want to be convenient," said El so fiercely she shocked herself and Mozzie held up his hands to placate her—or possibly to keep her at bay.

"All right, all right," he said soothingly. "No one's forcing you to pursue happiness. It's in your hands."

Happiness, or humiliation and heartbreak. El took a deep breath. She was tired. She was stressed about the banquet. She wasn't being rational. "Sorry, Moz. I didn't mean to snap."

"Think nothing of it." Mozzie lowered his glasses back to his nose. "I almost forgot, I brought you the book for next week's book club." He picked up his messenger bag from the floor and dug a crisp new paperback from it, handing it over with relish and definitively demonstrating that the subject of Neal was closed, at least for now.


	39. Chapter 39

"Alex Hunter, Sarah Ellis, Rachel Tang in ERT," said Peter, picking the low-hanging fruit first. He and Neal were sprawled together in Neal's bed, naked except for Peter's watch and, oh, his left sock, and Neal's anklet, which Peter was trying his hardest to ignore. They were sweaty and spent, and Neal's head was heavy on Peter's shoulder, his fingers sifting idly through Peter's sparse chest hair, his toes digging into Peter's instep. And Neal was making Peter guess the names on the sweepstake list, having somehow convinced Jones to show it to him.

"Right on all counts," said Neal, amused. "Which I don't get. Why Rachel? She's always glaring at me at crime scenes."

"She likes you," said Peter. Even he knew that, and he generally ignored office gossip. "She was the one who insisted we send flowers when you were back in prison, after—" After the explosion and Kate. "Last time. You didn't know?"

Neal shrugged one loose shoulder. "She still seems like a long shot. She's—"

"Before you say old, keep in mind she's not that much older than I am," said Peter, poking him in the ribs.

"In years, maybe," muttered Neal. "Okay, three down, four to go. Who else?"

But Peter didn't want to play anymore. They'd hastily heaped Neal's clothes and toiletries on the couch when they arrived, and now the pile caught Peter's eye, troubling him. He'd tried to ask earlier, but Neal had been in a hurry to take him to bed and Peter easily distracted by the lure of Neal's body. Now the collection of possessions looked symbolic—the anklet, Neal moving out. "You could have left some of your things at the house," Peter said. "It's not like you're banned from going there. It doesn't even trigger the marshal's alarm."

"I know." Neal's foot ceased moving. "Did you want me to leave my dirty laundry or my shaving kit? Maybe my shoes?" There was weariness in the words, glossed over with irony.

Peter waited a moment, his investigative instincts tingling. Tension had unsettled their post-coital languor. He got up on one elbow and studied Neal's profile, the firm chin and straight nose, the long eyelashes and the faint lines on his forehead.

"I didn't want to impose," muttered Neal into Peter's armpit, almost under his breath. 

"That's ridiculous," said Peter. Neal rolled onto his back and looked up at him, tried to drag him down for a kiss, but Peter resisted. "Neal, we're not—" Not breaking up. Peter couldn't get the words out. "We're okay."

Neal blinked, and he seemed to relax, but Peter was suddenly unsure whether to trust the easy lines of his body. But when Neal looked at him, his gaze was clear and true. "Peter, it was hard enough getting you horizontal in the first place. I'm not letting you go now."

"Then, what?" Peter reviewed the last twenty-four hours. Something had been off since Neal and El got home from the Marlborough the night before. "Did something happen between you and El?"

The corner of Neal's mouth twitched into a humorless smile. "Not a thing." He eyed Peter, unusually reserved for them these days. Cautious, even. 

Peter felt a rush of foreboding. Had Neal and El fought over him? No, that couldn't be it, or they wouldn't have suggested moving the guest bed into the main bedroom. All sleeping together. The memory still warmed Peter, but he refused to get distracted. He raised his eyebrows at Neal, willing him to divulge the source of the problem. Of course, given he was dealing with Neal, it was a vain hope.

Neal drew a soft line down Peter's neck and shoulder, following his finger's progress with his gaze. "Really, Peter, she's been amazing. Brunch tomorrow, right?"

Peter would have to work it out for himself. At least if he guessed right, Neal would confirm it; Neal never lied to him outright. Peter thought over the last twenty-four hours and assembled the clues as if it were a case: El had worn her vacation pajamas; she and Neal had been—had they avoided each other that morning? Neal had come looking for him pretty quickly, and El had decided to shower before coming down. It could be coincidence, but then again, maybe not. Most tellingly, Neal had gone to El about Diana—and not, he claimed, to enlist her help, but because _he had to._ And he'd practically scoured the townhouse in his effort to remove all his possessions. 

Underlying all that, neither was naturally argumentative, neither resented the other. In fact, Neal openly admired El, and El had once claimed to be a little bit in love with Neal. If things were different between the three of them, the signs might have pointed to their having an affair and trying to keep it hidden, but Neal had just said nothing happened, and there was no reason for them to sneak around behind Peter's back. 

Unless it was something criminal.

"Are you planning something illegal?" asked Peter bluntly, before he headed too far down that road.

Neal blinked, seeming first genuinely confused, then rolling his eyes. "Seriously, Peter? Your answer to everything you don't understand is 'Neal's planning a heist'?" He moved away, pushing himself upright and sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Peter.

"Hey, easy. I was just asking," said Peter. And that hadn't been a denial. "Are you?"

"You spent our whole last case thinking I was deliberately delaying to stay out of the anklet, and now you ask me that." Neal's spine was a perfect curve, his shoulders hunched. 

"Well, be fair," said Peter, "I've seen your stash. I _wrote_ your case file. I know exactly how brilliant you are. You've been to every corner of the globe and stolen things I've never dreamed of from supposedly unbeatable security systems. You forged a piano, Neal! And you enjoyed every minute of it. Forgive me if I sometimes wonder if you're satisfied to have traded it all in for a two-mile radius and a lowly desk at the FBI."

"I didn't trade it in for the FBI," said Neal, as if Peter were being incredibly dense. 

He was right, of course. Peter knew as well as anyone that Neal had chosen this life for love: he'd talked his way out of prison for Kate, and he'd stayed for Peter and Mozzie and June. Even back then, Neal's bright shiny façade hadn't been able to conceal the utter devotion of his heart. Peter closed his eyes, regretting starting this line of questioning. 

He regretted it even more when Neal asked, with a hint of defeat, "Peter, do you trust me?"

"Yeah, I do." Peter took a breath and mentally shook himself. Neal wouldn't risk prison for a score now, not when they both had so much to lose. He wouldn't let Peter down. Peter knew that in his bones. He sat up and arranged himself behind Neal, a leg on either side, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling his stiff body close and holding him until he relaxed in Peter's arms. "Sorry," said Peter into the nape of Neal's neck. "Sometimes I forget how much you've changed, but I do trust you. I know you wouldn't risk this."

"I wouldn't," said Neal. He sighed deeply and leaned his head back against Peter's shoulder, exposing his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Peter felt a swell of tenderness and kissed below his ear, down to the soft hollow at the corner of his jaw, grateful beyond measure that he hadn't done irreparable damage with his clumsy words. Thankful to have Neal in his arms. 

It wasn't until later in the evening, after they'd eaten and Neal had regaled Peter with a series of unlikely—and therefore, probably true—adventures in Bulgaria in the early aughts, when Neal was making coffee and Peter was standing by the French doors admiring the sumptuous lights of the Chrysler building, that Peter's thoughts returned to the mystery of Neal and El. Not a crime, not jealousy, not an affair. They'd definitely have told him before starting an affair. 

Peter knew he could just ask El. She'd tell, even if she didn't want to. But it was too late to call her now, and besides, there weren't many other options. The process of elimination had provided him with the most likely theory.

There was a small, ignoble part of him that hoped he was wrong, selfishly wanting El and his marriage to remain secure and untouched, his eternal refuge. But if he was right, it was already too late for that. He'd said he was okay with Neal seeing other people; it would be the height of hypocrisy to deny El that same assent. Compersion, he reminded himself. El had approached the equivalent situation with an open mind and a generous spirit. He could do it too. 

Anyway, he might be wrong. There was one way to find out. 

Neal was humming under his breath—that Billy Joel tune again—and Peter might have teased him or hugged him, but first he had to know. He took a piece of paper from the notepad by the refrigerator and wrote an IOU for a kiss from El, trying to use the same wording El had used on the original promise note. 

Neal was watching, eyebrows raised in curiosity, but he turned away to get cups as Peter finished. When he turned back, Peter gave him the note. "Is this it?"

Neal stared at the scrap of paper in his hand. "How did you know?"

"I'm the guy who caught you twice, remember," said Peter. Confirmation made the small voice in his head grumble, but the idea of giving happiness to the two people he loved so dearly more than overrode his selfishness.

"Well, much as I appreciate the gesture, it's not going to happen," said Neal, moving into his arms and leaning against him. 

"Why not?" Peter hugged him tight, already adjusting to the idea of sharing him. Sharing El. Maybe it could be good—the three of them together.

"Not everyone finds me as irresistible as you do," said Neal drily, unwittingly quashing the fantasy before it had fully formed. "Hard to believe, I know."

Peter kissed him. "It is hard to believe, actually. She said no?" 

He must have misinterpreted the evidence on El's side of things; self-consciousness would explain her actions just as well as hidden desire.

"She asked me to stop flirting with her." Neal shrugged, apparently trying to seem philosophical about it. It was far from his most convincing performance.

"I'm sorry," said Peter. "How long—?" He swallowed his real question: how much of what had happened between them over the last week and a half had actually been about Neal and El. Whatever the answer, it wasn't important; what mattered was that Neal had chosen to be with him.

"I don't know," murmured Neal slowly, "but it really hit me between the eyes last night at the Marlborough. You're one lucky bastard, I hope you know that."

"Believe me, I do." Peter tightened his hold, threading his fingers into Neal's hair and cupping his head. "I'm sorry," he said again, and this time he meant it with his whole heart. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

Neal pulled back. "Please don't. I'll—it'll pass. And I don't want to make things awkward."

He was so earnest, Peter couldn't argue. "Okay," he promised. "I won't bring it up."


	40. Chapter 40

Neal woke with Peter's elbow digging into his side, the sheets twisted around his ankle, and a deep sense of contentment. Having Peter spend the whole night was a luxury he could get used to. He was well-fucked and well-loved, and any minor rib-prodding was a small price to pay.

Even so, now he was awake, he eased his ankle—and the anklet—free of the sheets and rolled onto his side with his back to Peter. When he pulled Peter's arm around him, Peter grumbled and obligingly moved up behind him without waking. He must have spooned with Elizabeth so often it was an automatic reflex.

Neal closed his eyes against a wave of useless disappointment. It should be the three of them: Peter and Elizabeth letting him in. Letting him sit between them on the couch, lie between them in their marriage bed, take Satchmo for walks with them, eat and laugh and make love with them. His longing to be part of both of their lives on an intimate domestic level was a physical ache. 

But even as he wished for it, a small part of him rebelled. He'd wanted to make a family with Kate, but that dream had literally gone up in flames, and after everything that had happened, the image of Peter and Elizabeth both welcoming him home was almost too much. However unwilling Neal was to admit it, there was a kernel of truth to Peter's analysis the night before: Neal needed excitement in his life, the rush of danger and adrenaline. And sometimes he needed more than his work with the FBI could provide. 

The social and legal prohibitions on a secret relationship with Peter added a dash of spice, but the novelty would fade, and while Neal had no doubt at all that his love for Peter would endure beyond that point and for years to come, if Elizabeth had been willing to draw Neal fully into their marriage, chances were that sooner or later the quiet life would have begun to chafe. If Elizabeth were anyone else, he wouldn't let that hold him back, he'd mold himself to suit her, determined to be her ideal man. But her ideal man was Peter, and her life and her marriage were already picture-perfect. 

Of course, telling himself that—even half-believing it—didn't lessen his desire. It was strange and disconcerting to be simultaneously elated by Peter's nearness and dejected at El's kind indifference. Sunshine over stormy seas.

Behind him Peter stretched and tightened his hold, interrupting Neal's reflections, and Neal leaned back into his slightly sweaty embrace, acutely aware of Peter's cock pressing against his ass and glad of what he had—a partner in every sense. 

"Hey, good morning." Peter's murmur sent a tingle down Neal's spine. He pressed his lips to the angle of Neal's neck, then bit down gently, his hand wrapping around Neal's cock and giving it a slow, lazy stroke.

Neal groaned in answer and reached back to grab Peter's ass, pulling him closer. "Morning."

Neal was still tender from the night before, and he was briefly relieved when Peter rolled him onto his back and started kissing down his body, his hot mouth and scratchy chin making Neal writhe. Then Neal realized Peter's goal and felt a twinge of apprehension: Peter's first attempt at a blowjob had been exciting for its enthusiasm and novelty value—the sight of Peter on his knees had almost been enough in itself—but from a technical perspective, it had been, well, abortive. Peter had nearly choked.

Neal thought about side-tracking him before it came to that again, but Peter was already taking a mint condom from the nightstand, rolling it onto Neal's cock with a slight frown of concentration. Neal watched him, affection swamping any hesitation. They'd make it work. Neal could always distract him if it was too awkward.

But Peter surprised him. He was still a little unsure of himself, but he clearly had a plan, determination tempered with technique. Neal flopped back on the bed, panting, and tried not to move for fear of throwing him off. One of Peter's hands was wrapped around him, the other teasing his balls, and the heat of Peter's mouth, the suction— Neal's body tensed involuntarily. He wanted so much to thrust in response. Instead he raised up on his elbows. "Have you been practicing?"

Peter snorted and looked up, his lips red and wet. "Only in the abstract. Told you I'd get better."

"Yeah," said Neal. "Please, don't let me interrupt."

Peter's eyes crinkled. He lowered his head again, and _oh._ Clearly he had more resources at his disposal than Neal gave him credit for. Maybe Elizabeth had given him some pointers. The idea of that—the Burkes talking about him sexually, Elizabeth directing Peter's mouth, fellatio by proxy—made Neal's pulse race. He tried to clear it from his mind. Elizabeth didn't want him. He shouldn't—

But it was too late. He dug his heels into the mattress, overwhelmed with bittersweet pleasure, and let it engulf him, the firm slide of Peter's lips, heat and the intimation of wetness through the condom, the fantasy of all three of them naked, and an almost painful rush of release as he came.

Peter let out a muffled groan too. A few seconds later he let Neal slip free and moved up the bed to rub off against him in short, hurried strokes, swearing under his breath and telling Neal how much he wanted him. Neal gripped his hips and urged him on, exultant, until he felt Peter pulse against him, the sudden slipperiness, and Peter's movements growing ragged. Then Peter collapsed on top of him, dropping his forehead to Neal's shoulder, and trailed his hand down Neal's side. He inhaled deeply and sighed it out, then looked up and met Neal's gaze, almost shy.

Neal rolled them so he was on top, heedless of the mess he was making, the come dripping onto the sheets, and kissed Peter for the first time that morning, as honestly as he knew how, trying to convey how much this meant. All of this—having Peter here with him, surviving the week with its ups and downs, finding a way to make their connection work.

Peter's response was just as enthusiastic and careful. Then he put his hand on Neal's face and stroked his thumb across his cheekbone. "Maybe El will change her mind," he said gently.

"Maybe," said Neal, wondering if Peter had been reading his mind during the sex or if he was taken with the idea of the three of them together on his own behalf. Neal himself wasn't holding out much hope that Elizabeth would have a change of heart, not if he couldn't even flirt with her to win her interest, but he wasn't going to discard Peter's IOU either. It was early days, and he was a lucky guy or he'd never have come this far.

Peter met his eye. "If she doesn't—"

"We're good, Peter," Neal assured him. "This, with you—I'm happy." Happy enough, anyway.

"Okay." 

Peter sounded doubtful, and Neal guessed he knew why: Peter had seen him at his lowest over Kate—heartbroken after he broke out of prison and found the bottle in their empty apartment, and again after her murder. Peter knew more about the vulnerabilities of Neal's heart than was good for either of them. But there was a world of difference between breaking up and the sadness of unfulfilled potential. He had no claim on Elizabeth; this wouldn't break him. Neal rolled off Peter and kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love you."

Apparently those were the magic words. Peter turned to face him, relaxed and disarmed, his mouth curving into a small, fond smile. "I love you too." They lay together in silence, listening to the distant sounds of the city. Downstairs, Bugsy was barking excitedly about something. The sun came out from behind a cloudbank and the room brightened. "So," said Peter, "what are the chances the clinic already has our test results?"

 

*

 

Half an hour later when Peter was in the bathroom, Neal's phone rang. "Moz," he answered it. "What's up?"

"Are you decent?" said Mozzie. "Never mind. I need a favor." He sounded flustered.

Neal sighed. It was the weekend, and he had Peter all to himself. "Moz, I'm not really—"

"It's for El."

"What do you need?"

"She asked me to help out with kitchen prep for a banquet this evening, but I just got a call to meet a guy in Pittsburgh about some parts for the fractal antenna. It's terrible timing. He won't reschedule." Mozzie's voice rose. Neal could picture him gesturing wildly.

"Pittsburgh," said Neal.

"Can you call El and say you'll stand in for me this afternoon?"

Given the choice between spending the day working in an industrial kitchen while trying to disguise his feelings for Elizabeth and spending it with Peter, Neal's strong inclination was to tell Moz to find someone else, but he couldn't say no to Mozzie or Elizabeth. He owed them both too much. "Fine," he said, as Peter walked back into the room. "Have fun in Pittsburgh."

"Yeah," said Mozzie, sounding forcedly cheerful. "Gotta go. Bye."

He hung up, and Neal frowned at the phone for a moment, trying to figure out what was weird about that, but then Peter pulled him into a hug and Neal let the ghost of suspicion slide away.

"Pittsburgh?" asked Peter.

"Moz," said Neal, and explained why he would be absent that afternoon.

Peter looked as disappointed as Neal felt, but he accepted it with good grace. "El's having a hell of a time with this banquet. Maybe I'll volunteer my services too, and we can take Satchmo out tomorrow."

"I doubt pot roast is on the menu," said Neal, teasing.

"I do have other skills beside pot roast," said Peter, wrestling Neal down to the bed.

Neal snickered. "So I've noticed."


	41. Chapter 41

El was sitting in bed with her laptop, in theory checking her email and figuring out who she could ask to sub in for Sandy this afternoon; in practice she'd zoned out for so long the screensaver had kicked in. Thinking about Neal.

Yvonne had once said that El was a person who knew what she wanted and went out and got it, and El had woken refreshed from a good night's sleep determined to stop moping and solve her own problems. Get in touch with her inner Genghis Khan. The difficulty, she was realizing, was that what she wanted was completely impossible. An affair with Neal was only the start: she wanted him to steal extravagant treasures for her or, better yet, to take her along on heists. She wanted thrills and adventures, to witness his brilliance first hand and discover her own. It would be like book club, but for real, beating the odds, outwitting law enforcement and celebrating their triumphs with romantic, passionate sex. 

When it came down to it, she wanted to be Kate: for Neal to be head over heels about her, prepared to risk everything and count the world well lost. 

El squirmed guiltily, ashamed as much by the discovery she was jealous of a dead woman as by her felonious daydreams. Peter would be shocked. El was shocked herself. She was a respectable and responsible businesswoman; she didn't want to hurt anyone, and she certainly didn't envy Kate the last few years of her life. And Neal didn't commit crimes anymore, he solved them. El was too late for the crime spree, and even if she hadn't been, she wasn't Kate. Neal simply didn't think of her like that. 

And there was Peter to consider. She loved Peter, she was happy in their marriage, and he would never fit into the seductive scenario of larceny and wrong-doing. El knew that. She'd never seriously pursue it, even if the opportunity arose. It was just that, right now, with the possibilities available from no longer being monogamous and with the memory of Neal's hand on hers, all this awareness of him, she was restless and unsettled. It was making her dream about things well outside her usual comfort zone.

She swiped her laptop's trackpad to bring it back to life, half-intending to google Neal or Kate and find a photo or a news report to bring herself back down to earth, but instead, without consciously deciding to, she brought up the marshal's website and entered Peter's username and password. Neal had read her forum post. Yesterday he'd tracked her phone. It was her turn. And it wasn't like he was hiding—if El wanted to know where he was, she could simply phone Peter. This was no different.

But her heart beat faster as the page loaded: a bland street map, a small red dot over June's house, where Peter and Neal were—what? Sleeping in each other's arms? Sitting around drinking coffee and talking? Making love? El bit her lip and zoomed in on the website. It didn't give her any further information, but the dot grew bigger and her sense of trespass with it. She shouldn't, but she couldn't help herself.

She was intimately familiar with Peter's naked body, and it was easy to picture Neal, to imagine them holding each other, their skin pressed together, their hands gripping tight. Eyes closed, mouths fused together, hips hard up against each other—

A low animal sound escaped El. She slid her hand between her legs, letting her head fall back and her imagination run wild. Her breath shuddered out of her as she dipped her fingers into her wetness and rubbed her clit roughly. Her laptop slid to the bed beside her, and she didn't care, her mind full of fantasies now, of being naked in an empty, darkened museum, lying on a leather couch beneath an Old Master, a bag of priceless loot at her side. Neal dressed in black, kissing his way across her chest, his hands eager and capable. The hot press of his thighs between hers, spreading her wide. Him sliding into her, filling her, and wanting her so much he had to clench his jaw, could barely move without losing control. Maybe somewhere distant an alarm would sound, or police sirens, and their eyes would meet, hot and impassioned in the shadows. He'd cup her breast, tease her nipple and whisper, "We don't have much time," and she'd arch against him helplessly and say, "Let them find us. It's worth it." That would make his eyes darken, excited by her fearlessness—

El moaned, rubbing her swollen, sensitive clit harder, faster, until her breath caught and she let out a hoarse cry and came, throbbing, warmth spreading through her limbs. She lay back, catching her breath, and snickered despite herself, mentally playing the scene out to its inevitable conclusion: Peter bursting in, gun and badge in hand, and all hell breaking loose. 

El squeezed her thighs around her hand, chasing the last traces of pleasure, but her thoughts were already turning on her. The Neal Caffrey of her imagination wasn't real; he lived in the past, as elusive as Thomas Crown or Danny Ocean. Now Neal was just a man, her husband's partner and lover, sweet, playful and earnest. He'd suffered for his crimes at the hands of the State and the likes of Adler and Keller. He deserved more than the role of caricature in her sex fantasies. 

Was she in love with the idea of Neal Caffrey or with the man behind the reputation? Preoccupied, she went to shower, her body still buzzing. She wanted Neal to love her, to prove his love for her the way he had for Kate, but why? She didn't doubt his devotion to Peter, and Neal hadn't performed any illegal extravagant stunts for him.

No, he'd given all of that up for him, turned his back on his life of crime. All he'd done for El was send her flowers.

She was being irrational and petulant. She didn't know what she wanted and whatever it was, she probably wouldn't figure it out without talking to someone. Preferably Peter. Everything she'd read about polyamory had emphasized the importance of open communication, and anyway, she missed him. It felt like an age since they'd had a normal conversation, let alone confided in each other.

She'd make sure she spent some time alone with him tomorrow, once the banquet was out of the way. In the meantime, she had to find a replacement for Sandy. She toweled off and went back to the bedroom, reviewing her options.

Her laptop screensaver had reactivated. She cleared the screen to find she was still logged in to the marshal's website. She blushed, embarrassed. She was going to have to confess that too, find some reasonable explanation. She peered closer. Neal's red dot was on the move, heading away from June's place: Peter and Neal were on their way to brunch.

"Dammit!" El was going to be horribly late. She logged off quickly and scrambled to get dressed.

 

*

 

By the time she arrived, no closer to finding a second kitchen hand, she was resigned to asking Neal. If he said yes, well, spending time with him would remind her of who he was now and that they were friends. If he said no, she was screwed—Dana? June? Peter could handle himself in their kitchen at home, but in an industrial setting he'd probably be more hindrance than help.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, dropping into the third seat at their table. There were two empty coffee cups and a slew of newspapers and menus. "It's been a crazy morning."

Peter leaned across to kiss her, and Neal—real, non-fantasy Neal in a green shirt that wasn't the least bit cat burglary—gave her a restrained smile and said, "Hi, Elizabeth."

El decided she might as well get it over with. "Neal, I have to ask you a favor. This afternoon—"

"I know," said Neal. "You need a kitchen hand. I'm happy to help out."

"Mozzie called," explained Peter.

El flushed. How much had Moz revealed? She'd trusted him to keep her secret, and here he was interfering. She should have known his loyalty to Neal would come first, but she'd never thought Moz of all people would betray a confidence. That was why Neal was being distant. "Thank you, you're a life saver," she said, forcing a smile. "Excuse me a minute." She grabbed her phone and went outside. 

Her call went straight to an automated message. "Moz, we need to talk," she said, her voice clipped with panic, even to her own ears. "How could you?"

She hung up and stared at the cloudy sky, desperately gathering her composure and dignity. A second later, her phone buzzed with a text message: _Unavailable for comment. You can thank me later._

El snorted, put her chin up and went back inside. She didn't have much choice, and besides, she was starving.


	42. Chapter 42

"Was it something I said?" murmured Neal as El made a beeline through the crowded restaurant to the exit. He sounded light and ironic, but Peter heard the genuine concern hidden in his words.

Peter squeezed his shoulder, wishing they were in private and he could let his hand linger there. Hoping he was right when he said, "It's the banquet, it's making her distracted."

"Yeah," said Neal. Then he dropped the pretense of humoring him. "She's mad."

"No." Peter would be the first to admit that Neal was better at reading people than he was, but Peter knew El. She'd never get bent out of shape because someone expressed an interest in her. "Flirting isn't a crime, and you stopped when she asked you to. If she was mad at you, she wouldn't have asked for your help. Relax."

"She asked Mozzie first," Neal pointed out. "Look, maybe I should leave you two—"

"Hey, guys." El slid back into her seat. "Sorry about that. I had to make a call." And okay, yeah, something was definitely up; her cheeks were flushed, her chin defiant. 

"Everything okay, hon?" asked Peter.

"Of course," she said too brightly. She looked across the room and caught a waiter's eye, making it look effortless despite the chaos around them. "I'm starving," she explained to Peter and Neal, as the waiter threaded his way over. "Low blood sugar." 

When the waiter had taken their orders, she stole Peter's coffee cup and drank the last mouthful. "Neal, I should warn you, you're taking a risk getting involved."

Neal's head snapped up, his gaze hopeful. "I can handle risk. What are you saying?" 

Peter looked between them, his hopes skyrocketing too. He may have had initial doubts about Neal and El together, but now he just needed for both of them to be happy. Of course, if it wasn't what El wanted, he'd abandon the idea in a heartbeat, but when it came to Neal, Peter found it hard to comprehend that anyone who knew him could truly be immune to him, gay women and straight men excepted.

"We're pretty sure the banquet is cursed," continued El, oblivious to their reactions.

Neal sat back. "Oh, right. Well, that explains Pittsburgh."

"Pittsburgh?" 

"Moz said you need me to fill in this afternoon because he has an urgent appointment in Pittsburgh."

"Oh." The tension eased from El's shoulders. "Well, good."

"You know you're better off with me anyway." Neal gave her a wry smile. "Your wine reserves will be safer."

"You mean unless there's Chateau Mouton-Rothschild on the wine list," she said. 

It almost sounded like their usual friendly teasing, but Neal frowned slightly. "I'm one of the good guys now, and even if I wasn't, I would never steal from you, Elizabeth."

"So you won't be needing this then," said El, producing a Get Out Of Jail Free? Monopoly card from her pocket. There was an odd note in her voice. "I know. I was joking."

"The wine was a long time ago." Neal glanced at Peter and said, "And it was Nick Halden, not me." He turned back to El. "Mozzie shouldn't have told you about it. So much for his famed discretion."

"He does have a big mouth," said El, equally aggrieved.

"I'm sure he was only trying to help," said Peter, bemused to find himself rising to Mozzie' defense. He shrugged when his companions sent him twin looks of disgruntlement. He just wanted a quiet, comfortable meal. "I was thinking, hon, could you use another volunteer this afternoon?"

El's eyes widened, and she took his hand, holding it on the table top. "Oh, I'm ruining your weekend, aren't I?"

"It's just today. We can take Satchmo out tomorrow." Peter squeezed her hand—and saw Neal's gaze flick from their clasped hands to his, curled solo around his second cup of coffee. Under cover of the table, Peter nudged his knee, earning a quick smile. "My wife is having a professional crisis," Peter said to El. "I can't just stand by."

The corner of El's mouth turned down in a soft smile, the first glimpse of the real her, fond and unguarded, he'd seen since she arrived. "You could be Yvonne's backup?" she said. "It's the first time she's been in charge of setting up, and the way things are going, something heavy is probably going to fall on her and trap her until she has to saw off her arm with a fountain pen to escape."

"I can do that." It wasn't what Peter had had in mind, but maybe it was for the best. If El and Neal spent the afternoon together, they'd have a chance to talk and get past this awkwardness. That might go better without him there.

"And I should warn you both now, I'm hoping to get Peter to myself tomorrow," added El. "Sorry, Neal. I really need some alone time with him."

"Not a problem," said Neal promptly, but after that the conversation ground to a halt.

The waiter brought their meals, and they dug in, and the silence stretched until Peter was itching under his collar, so he said the first thing that came into his head. "Uh, hon, I think we need to have one of those awkward conversations."

Neal looked alarmed and put down his knife and fork. Even El's gaze narrowed, and Peter was tempted to just get Neal's revelation out into the open so they could deal with it, but he'd promised he wouldn't bring it up, and that wasn't what he'd meant anyway. "Neal and I got our test results," he explained. He cast a quick glance around to make sure no one was eavesdropping and lowered his voice. "We're both clean."

"Oh." El's suspicion faded into blankness. She drank a mouthful of orange juice. "I had mine done yesterday. I haven't heard back yet."

Neal cleared his throat. "If you're the only unknown quantity, it's my risk. I'll take it."

El blinked at him for a moment, then gestured to include both of them. "What exactly are we talking about?"

"Oral," said Peter, hoping that was cryptic enough phrasing that even if someone overheard, they'd misunderstand. He could be talking about testimony or exams or any number of things.

Neal's knee was still pressed against his under the table, but his gaze was fixed on El, and there was a hint of challenge in his tone. "Anything short of penetration."

El flushed. "You know what that means."

Neal nodded. "I won't see anyone else."

"If you do—"

"We renegotiate," said Peter, intervening. Something was going on here, only half-acknowledged, and he didn't understand it—Neal's flirting with El couldn't be the whole story—but he did know that he'd had one and a half weeks of polyamorous bliss and now it seemed to be fracturing dangerously.

"That won't be necessary," said Neal.

"That's not what you said last week." El's mouth was stretched into a smile so tight it could qualify as a grimace, and she sounded almost cross. 

So did Neal when he answered, "Well, you know, things change."

"You're saying Peter's your one and only." El stared at him for a moment, then shook herself. "Okay then, if that's what you both want, it's okay with me. You know I'm counting on full disclosure if you do start seeing someone else. I'm trusting you with my health."

"I told you I wouldn't lie to you," said Neal.

Peter's jaw dropped. He'd thought he was the only one Neal had made that commitment to; he'd worn the knowledge like a badge of pride. But he was not going to compound the tensions between the three of them by being jealous of his own wife. He touched El's arm. "Sounds like you and I are members of a very select club, hon."

Something dark flashed across her face, and then she smiled, as broad and hollow as Neal's con smile. "Maybe we need a secret handshake."


	43. Chapter 43

By the time Peter dropped Neal and Elizabeth off at the caterer's, the conversation was dialed back to polite chitchat but the atmosphere was still strained. From the back seat, with the car idling at the curb, Neal wished he could kiss Peter goodbye if only to reassure himself that, should the situation worsen, Peter wouldn't sacrifice their relationship to keep the peace. But the street was too public for demonstrative farewells and Peter was preoccupied with Elizabeth. Neal climbed out of the car and waited on the sidewalk. Yesterday Peter had been prepared to give up his badge; he could no more walk away than Neal could, whatever happened. And even in her current mood, Elizabeth was too fair-minded to ask him to.

Neal didn't know what was up with her. Whatever it was, she'd made it obvious at brunch she didn't want to talk about it, and until that changed he could only speculate. Speculation led him directly back to Mozzie's spilling the Chateau Mouton-Rothschild beans. Elizabeth had a lot of friends in restaurants and catering. Maybe the idea of his targeting the hospitality industry didn't sit well with her.

Except surely that would make her reproachful, rather than irritable. She'd never held his past crimes against him before. And Mozzie wouldn't have told her if there'd be repercussions; even if he were deliberately sabotaging Neal's involvement with the Suits—which was improbable but not impossible—he wouldn't do it by incrimination. 

Neal watched El emerge from the car. To a casual glance, she looked completely normal and composed. She was even smiling. But when she looked at him, her gaze slid away again, and her holding herself aloof made his stomach tighten in discomfort and regret. It was the exact opposite of what he wanted. The impulse to con her into forgiveness for whatever offence he'd given, to try and charm her, maybe even seduce her was almost overwhelming.

But he couldn't con Elizabeth. Even if she fell for it, it wouldn't solve anything. He had to deal with the problem on the level. When she cooled down, he'd find a way to broach the subject—or distract her. They'd fix this.

She led the way through a side door and down a narrow flight of stairs to a mid-sized industrial kitchen, all gleaming stainless steel surfaces piled with brightly colored vegetables. Busy people in white kitchen scrubs bustled about, and the air was filled with savory aromas and the clatter and hiss of cooking. 

A brisk woman with short red hair broke off a discussion with the sous chef when she saw them. "Oh, El!" She came forward, arms outstretched. "I wasn't expecting you. I really just needed some grunts with knives to make up the numbers."

"And here we are," said El, cheerfully. "Teri, this is Neal."

"Family friend," said Neal, as much to remind Elizabeth as for Teri's benefit. He shook Teri's hand and gave her a charming smile, which made her eyes dance and her lips curve in reply.

"Well, I'm honored," she told El. She grinned up at Neal. "This woman is amazing. She's saved my bacon half a dozen times in the last year alone."

"Nickel-and-dime stuff," said El. "Nothing like stepping in at the last minute to cater a banquet."

Teri laughed. "This does take our relationship to a whole new level."

Neal swallowed a pang at the words. He'd never make it through the afternoon if he kept reading in to innocent throwaway comments.

Teri put her arm around El's shoulders, drawing her away. "Since I have you here, can you take me through the list of allergies and special dietary requirements, just to be sure?"

"Of course," said El. She glanced back at Neal, a brief grimace of apology, and Teri noticed and stopped.

"Oh, sorry, Neal. Talk to my sous chef, Luis. He'll show you what we need."

"Got it," said Neal, and went to report for duty.

Luis was large, efficient and friendly in a way that could easily have segued into flirting if Neal had indicated he was interested. Neal figured Teri had seen that coming. Luis gave him a starched smock and cap and showed him where to change, then got him started on a pile of fennel bulbs.

The knife handle fit snugly into Neal's palm, and after the first few cuts his wrist remembered the movements, smooth, controlled and repetitive, bringing with them a vague nostalgia for the old days, running with Kate and Mozzie, small-time scams and big dreams. The licorice scent of the fennel filled his nostrils.

"Good skills, man," said Luis, who'd been watching to make sure Neal could deliver. "You done this before."

"Long time ago," said Neal.

"Some things you don't forget." There was a crash from the other end of the kitchen, followed by a chorus of shouts, and Luis rolled his eyes. "Any questions, come find me," he said, heading off to investigate.

Neal kept slicing. When Elizabeth came over in a matching smock, her long hair in a net, his blade faltered slightly, but he quickly regained his rhythm. "Hey."

"Hey." She put a tub of carrots on the counter and set to work. "Thank you for this."

"It's no problem." He was about to share the memories evoked by being here and doing this, but then she started chopping, her knife strokes sharp and staccato. Not exactly an invitation to sepia-colored reminiscing. Neal spoke over the clatter. "Tell me about the banquet curse."

Elizabeth glanced up without stopping. "So far it's put two people in the hospital and deprived an old lady of her caregiver."

"A malevolent force," said Neal. "Has it affected you directly?"

Her knife hesitated. "Maybe," she said, as if she hadn't considered it before. "And Sandy had to take an overnight bus to Buffalo to look after her grandmother."

"Harsh."

"Though she's been driving me crazy all week anyway, so—" Elizabeth glanced at Neal and fell silent, her lips pressed together in a straight line. A curl of hair had escaped from her net and was trailing down the back of her neck. Neal wanted to fix it, to wind it around his fingers. To touch her. To bring warmth and mischief to her eyes and have her tease him. To make things right between them.

"Elizabeth?" He waited, but she didn't answer. "You know, I'm wracking my brains to figure out what I did to make you mad."

She glanced up quickly. "I'm not mad at you."

Neal raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not," she insisted, but she was still wielding her knife like a ninja on a murder rampage.

"I'm pretty sure they'll want those carrots sliced, not minced," said Neal, mildly. 

Elizabeth glanced down and frowned at the mess she was making. "Dammit."

"Come on," said Neal. He stopped working and looked at her. "Full disclosure cuts both ways."

"Neal." She gave a tired sigh.

"What's going on?" He softened his voice.

"It's not you," said Elizabeth again. 

Neal didn't believe her for a second. "I thought we were friends." He looked around. A woman was sorting herbs only a few yards away, preparing garnishes and holding a shouted conversation in Spanish with someone working at the ovens. Neal caught Elizabeth's arm and hustled her into a nearby closet full of cleaning supplies. It wasn't spacious and it smelled of disinfectant, but once he'd pushed a floor mop out of the way there was room for both of them to stand, barely a foot apart. "Elizabeth, what's wrong?"

She scowled. "It's really—it's embarrassing." She gestured, apparently unaware she was still holding her knife. "God, I'm a mess."

Neal gently pried it from her grasp. "No, you're not." 

She looked up at him, flushed and overwrought and unattainable. "I'm a mess, and I want something impossible, and it's pissing me off."

Neal put the knife safely on a shelf next to a box of dish towels and looked at her. "Is it Peter? You want him to yourself again." 

Could he give up Peter for Elizabeth's sake? It was an impossible choice.

But Elizabeth grabbed his arm impatiently. "No, that's not it at all." She surged forward and kissed him. 

For a split second, Neal was too shocked to move— _Elizabeth was kissing him_ —and then he stopped thinking entirely and gathered her close, dislodging her hairnet so her hair spilled down her back, pressing her hard up against him. She clutched his shoulders, her kiss infused with passion and turmoil, and he matched it, equally desperate, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't know how this had happened or why, but hell, this was no time to question his luck.


	44. Chapter 44

El was on fire. She finally had her hands on Neal, kissing him, his body pressed against hers. All the months she'd known him, she'd never admitted to herself that she wanted him until yesterday, but now there was no hiding from it, no going back. She was in flames, in his arms. Her body ached. Somewhere in the haze of desire, she knew she shouldn't be doing this, there were reasons, compelling reasons to stop, but his arms were strong around her, holding her tight, making her breathless, and she was kissing him. Nothing else mattered. 

It was unfamiliar in every way. He was so different from Peter, like day and night; Neal obviously the night, full of mysterious shimmering moonlight and stolen kisses in the shadows, whereas Peter—

Oh God, _Peter_. Neal loved Peter, and she—

El tore herself away, wrenching out of his arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" She drew a ragged breath, too ashamed to look at him. She was as bad as Christie's assailant, wielding her power as Peter's wife. He'd said _you want Peter to yourself_ , as if he'd do anything to change her mind, and she'd chosen that moment to pounce on him. Under the circumstances, how could he refuse? "I'm losing my mind." She backed into a set of shelves and nearly tripped against a bucket on the floor. "God, Neal, I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize." He reached to steady her, but she flinched away. "Elizabeth, you must know—"

El hardly heard him, as the next reason hit like a blow, eclipsing the first. "Peter—"

She was married. Whatever changes there had been to her marriage recently, there was no justification for kissing someone else without talking it over first. And it had been so much more than a kiss. Twelve years of unquestioning fidelity, and all of a sudden she was ravishing other men in closets. Cheating on Peter with Neal. 

Okay. It was okay. She had to keep this in perspective. It wasn't the end of the world. It had just been a—devastating, scorching, utterly revealing—kiss. Peter would understand, but she had to—

Neal pulled a slip of paper from his back pocket. "Peter's fine with it."

El stared at the IOU note in Peter's handwriting, her head spinning. Moz really had told Peter and Neal about her admission, and now they were prepared to include her, to humor her. Or more accurately, Peter was prepared to. Exasperation cut through the rest of her emotions like a knife. "Neal, just because someone gives you a coupon, doesn't mean you have to redeem it!"

Neal took her hand, crumpling the note into her palm. "I want to." He sounded so seductively sure of himself. "God, Elizabeth, you're incredible. Just give me a chance—let me show you how good it could be."

El shook her head. She wanted him too much; it was clouding her vision to the point where she couldn't tell if he was just saying what he knew she wanted to hear. And he was still calling her Elizabeth, not El—surely that was a sign. "You and Peter makes sense," she said, feeling it out as she went. "I mean, just look at the two of you. You work together, you have adventures, save each other's lives every other week. You're in synch. But you and me? We don't have anything like that." She looked up at him, trying to hide how exposed she felt. "An hour ago you said you didn't want anyone but him."

She tried to pull her hand away, but Neal's grip tightened. He wasn't letting her go. "I said there wouldn't be anyone else," he said. "And only 'cause I thought I couldn't have you. Elizabeth—" 

He smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ear, and his fingers whispered against her skin making her shiver, but she couldn't look at him. If she looked at him she'd give in, and it wasn't right. He shouldn't feel he had to—

"Okay," he said, changing gears. He'd always been persistent—not to mention inventive, smart, sexy as hell. "Okay, if Neal and Elizabeth is too complicated, how about we make it simple. Forget everything else. What if we're Nick and Audrey?"

El's gaze flew to his. She'd needed to talk to someone but it wasn't supposed to be Neal. He wasn't supposed to be the one to come up with the answer, and the answer wasn't supposed to be so damned irresistible. It was almost frightening how well he could read her. Nick and Audrey, mischievous and sophisticated and well-matched— _that_ was what she wanted. Exactly that.

"Dammit," she breathed, and when he drew her close and brought his mouth to hers, she kissed him back helplessly, needing the heady, reckless dream to be a reality. 

His hands spread low on her back and at the curve of her breast, and she pressed in, feeling how much he wanted her, tempted to throw caution to the wind and let them both get carried away right here. But she was a married woman. "Stop," she said. "Wait." 

Neal—or was he Nick now?—groaned softly. He was breathing hard, and he pressed his forehead to her temple. She felt his lips move and the puff of warmth as he spoke. "Why?"

Without looking, El reached up and put her hand on his cheek. His jaw was faintly rough against her palm, a touch of danger. "I want to," she said. "God. But I can't do anything till I've talked to Peter." She closed her eyes, practicalities intruding. "And you know, this banquet is going to come crashing down around my ears any second now if we don't get back out there."

"Okay, Audrey." Neal took a deep breath and leaned back so he could look at her without letting her go. "First we save the day, then we save each other. Why were you angry before?"

El looked at his mouth, the beautiful mouth of a con man, and there was a tremor in her voice as she admitted the truth. "Because you could really break my heart."

His lips parted silently, and he crooked a finger under her chin, tilting her face up, silently asking her to meet his eyes. When she looked, she couldn't see any con there, just candor and incandescent heat. "It's mutual. Run away with me."

She let out a small surprised laugh, finally believing him and melting with elation. She raised her eyebrows. "And what about Peter?"

"He can chase us," said Neal wickedly. "He's good at that. Or we could let him tag along."

"Well, before we embark on our lives as wanted fugitives, we have to get out of this closet," said El. "Discreetly." She retrieved her hairnet from a bucket on the floor and twisted her hair back into it, then smoothed the creases from her smock while he did likewise. A few tugs and he looked as if he'd stepped from the pages of a uniform catalog. Typical Neal. 

She kissed him quickly, thrilling to the simple fact of it: Nick-Neal welcoming her kiss, loving her. How had she missed that? She must have been too busy making herself miserable as she tried to figure things out on her own. Let that be a lesson, she thought. "Wait here."

She slipped out of the closet, leaving the door ajar, and moved with casual efficiency back to her pile of brutalized carrots. They were already wasted. She got a fresh knife, and with a flick of her wrist she swiped the mush to the floor where it scattered, bright orange across the pale polished concrete. "Hey," she called. "Did you find a mop in there?"

He emerged with the floor mop and a bucket, and when he tried to present them to her, she shook her head meaningfully and jerked her head toward the mess. 

He took the instruction with good grace and went off to find a tap to fill the bucket. For the next five minutes while she chopped carrots—properly this time—and pretended not to look, El was treated to the sight of Neal mopping the floor. 

"Sorry about that," she said unrepentantly, when he was done. "I couldn't resist. I have a recurring fantasy about you and a kitchen mop."

His eyes sparked with humor. "Sounds kinky."

"You have no idea," said El, grinning right back at him.

"You know I'm going to find a way to get details out of you later, Audrey," he murmured.

Her pulse skipped at the promise in his words. She licked her lips. "It's not that exciting, Nick. I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"I doubt that very much." The heat was back in his gaze, and it kindled an answering fire low in her belly. Maybe he was right. Maybe housework had unplumbed depths of eroticism. If anyone could bring it, it was Neal. 

She really had to talk to Peter.


	45. Chapter 45

"Latte," said Peter, handing Yvonne a takeout cup from the tray.

"Thanks, Peter." Yvonne sipped her coffee with enough enthusiasm that Peter's pride was relieved. He'd been trying to help all afternoon, but he didn't know what he was doing and Yvonne didn't know what to do with him. The charts—meticulous diagrams of the room, table and setting layouts, a detailed event itinerary—might as well have been written in Cyrillic, and he'd already held up proceedings by spending twenty minutes securing a loose table leg instead of immediately requesting a replacement table from the venue staff. Around him, people were creating a banquet venue out of an empty ballroom. Everyone had their own task, and they all worked together like a colony of well-coordinated ants. Peter was just getting in the way.

On top of that, Yvonne obviously didn't feel comfortable giving him orders. His presence was probably making her more stressed about managing the setup, not less. She'd hastened to agree when he'd suggested he go on a coffee run.

Peter cracked the lid on his own cup. "You know, El asked me to help out, not to keep an eye on you. She knew you'd be short-handed without her, and she wanted to make sure there was someone to hand if a piano fell on your head."

"The curse." Yvonne grinned, relaxing. "It has been a pretty rough week." She broke off to consult with a couple of young women about wine glasses, and then turned back to him. "Has the curse been affecting you too?"

Peter thought about Diana's discovering their secret, El's inexplicable mood this morning. He wasn't superstitious, but the last couple of days definitely hadn't been plain sailing. Before he could answer, there was a call from behind them.

"Hi, guys!"

El was striding toward them, and it actually took Peter a second to recognize her. She seemed a completely different person from that morning—bright-eyed and breathless now, with a bounce in her step that almost made it look like she was skipping. 

"Hey, hon," said Peter, automatically. He kissed her cheek, wondering what had caused this startling transformation, and then added before he could stop himself, "Where's Neal?"

"Flirting with the sous chef." El grinned. "Kitchen staff are on a break, so I thought I'd check in." 

"Everything's more or less on schedule, except for the centerpieces," Yvonne told her, pointing to the event itinerary. "How's it going in the kitchen?"

"We had a slow start, but we've since made up for lost time," said El. "It's going to be great. Also, I'm cancelling the curse."

"Just like that?" said Yvonne, eyebrows going up.

"Just like that. Genghis Khan, remember?" El looked confident and happy. She stole a mouthful of Peter's coffee, and she and Yvonne started discussing technical details about the setup. Peter retreated with the rest of his coffee to sit on the edge of the low stage, watching El and desperately curious to know exactly what had happened in the last hour and a half to improve El's mood so dramatically. It had to be something to do with Neal—they'd resolved their differences, reached a compromise, maybe more. How they'd managed that in a room full of chefs and knives was anyone's guess.

Yvonne glanced across at Peter and said something quiet to El, and a minute later, El came over. "The musicians are going to be here any minute. Can I get you to help them set up?"

"Of course," said Peter. He checked no one else was in earshot. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"Funny you should ask." El tilted her head and looked up at him, her excitement dimming slightly. "I want the go-ahead to have an affair." She bit her lip. "And it's someone you probably won't approve of."

Peter smiled, one step ahead for once. "You mean Neal. That's great, hon—"

"I mean Nick Halden." El was watching him closely.

Peter blinked. "Nick Halden is Neal."

"I admit it's a subtle distinction."

Behind Peter, someone set down a stack of music stands with a clatter, and Peter and El moved into the corner of the ballroom by a potted palm, well away from the flurry of activity around them. They lowered their voices.

"They're the same person," said Peter, still confused.

"They don't act the same," said El. She sighed and put her hand on his arm. "Neal's head over heels in love with you. I just—I want a part of him to myself."

Peter forgot their surroundings and hugged her. After a moment, he said into her hair, "Does it have to be the criminal part of him?"

She pulled back, humor lighting her face. "Relax, hon, we're not going to rush out and knock over a jewelry store."

"Why do I not find that reassuring?" muttered Peter drily. "Maybe it's the thousand and one other criminal ventures you could explore instead."

El laughed delightedly. "Aw, come on. Trust us."

"You sound just like him." Peter studied her for a moment, at once selfishly disappointed for himself, terrified that something solid and precious might be slipping away, and gratified to see her exultant. "That's what you want?"

El leaned in, her eyes shining. "I'm in love with him. And I just think, I don't know, it's easier this way."

"He's in love with you too, you know. Neal, I mean, not Nick." Peter frowned. Was El doubting the reality of polyamory, of Neal—or Peter—truly loving more than one person at once? "I love both of you."

"I know." E's hand tightened on his arm. "And I love you so much. I don't think I can explain why—"

Peter stopped her. "You don't have to. It's good to see you happy."

"I am," said El simply.

"Then it's okay with me," said Peter, feeling like he was stepping into an uncharted world with no rules, lacking any ability to predict what would happen next or keep them all safe. He covered gruffly, "Just do me a favor and try not to get arrested. Remember Neal's on parole."

"We'll be fine," said El, her eyes dancing. "I have a card up my sleeve." She waved the Get Out Of Jail Free card in his face.

Peter groaned.

"Anyway, you're the only one who can catch him."

"El!"

El laughed. "Relax. I've cancelled the curse, remember?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yeah. How did you manage that, again?"

"Same way curses always get lifted," said El. "With a kiss." She winked and stepped away. "Gotta go. I'll catch up with you after the banquet. Love you." 

Peter stood, watching her practically dance her way out. She and Neal were in love, and she was happy—almost deliriously so. He was glad for them, and the fact that El had chosen to pursue Neal in a way that specifically excluded Peter himself was immaterial. He wasn't losing anything; he wasn't alone. They both still loved him, separately. 

It was only unnerving because it was unexpected and happening so fast, and because as a federal agent, Peter had alarming associations with the name Nick Halden, but they were all smart and capable and they loved each other. Nothing bad would happen. They'd figure it out. El had broken the curse.


	46. Chapter 46

The jazz quartet transitioned from "Embraceable You" to "Come Fly with Me." Neal was in the walk space behind the stage, looking through the gap in the curtains, past Chen the double bassist to the sea of glittering, bejeweled banquet guests. Waiters were serving the entrée, everything was running smoothly, and Neal was reveling. He had everything—security with Peter, adventure with Audrey.

He'd always been lucky but this was outstanding even for him, and it was making him jittery, his senses on high alert. Maybe he was too used to having the feds on his tail when he felt he'd scored big; maybe too many things had nearly gone wrong lately, adding an air of danger that should have been exhilarating, except that for once Neal wanted his life to be safe, stable, perfect. Living on the edge was all very well until you had it all; then the balancing act stopped being a fun game and became a desperate attempt to hold on. Money, treasures and love had slipped through Neal's fingers in the past—or been brutally ripped away. But nothing bad was going to happen this time. No one was going to tear them apart. 

Elizabeth was off liaising with the Wickenham people about the speeches, Peter was somewhere behind the scenes with the event staff, and Neal was taking a few minutes to appreciate the fruits of their labor. It was satisfying, this honest work they'd done. Less flashy than his stints with the FBI; relying on the kinds of skills that normal people had. This was what it was like to be a citizen.

Conversation hummed, accented with the chink of cutlery. Some of New York's wealthiest were here tonight, and a small reflexive part of him observed that if he found inconspicuous clothing—say a waiter's uniform—it would be a simple matter to work the crowd and relieve them of their gemstones, but he dismissed the idea as soon as it formed. He didn't need jewelry. He had his hands full with the triple roles of Peter's partner, Audrey's lover, and Elizabeth's friend. That was more than enough to keep him busy. 

The Burkes were trusting him to keep out of trouble, and he wasn't going to disappoint them.

Mostly, he was awash in anticipation for when he could see each of them again. The tension would dissolve then, he was sure. It was impatience making him over-analyze and worry. He and Elizabeth hadn't been alone since the cleaning closet, and working in the kitchen wasn't exactly conducive to private exchanges, verbal or physical. He needed to see her, to make sure she really was all right with the decision to dress themselves as Nick and Audrey. It was a pretty deceit, and so long as they were both equally seduced by it, it couldn't do any harm. On the contrary, it let them side-step any comparisons Elizabeth might otherwise have made between Peter and Neal. Neal didn't want to fail to measure up to Peter or to overshadow him. Elizabeth was right—better to keep the relationships completely separate. 

He let the curtains fall together and stepped lightly over the taped-down cables back to the corridor that ran parallel to the length of the ballroom. Everyone was busy with the guests, the hallway deserted until Peter happened to turn the corner at the far end. "There you are."

Neal's pulsed leaped in recognition and pleasure. "Hey, Mario."

"Nick Halden, I presume," said Peter, dry as dust. He clasped Neal's shoulder in greeting. "Word on the street is that you and El found some common ground." 

Neal grinned. "She told you about Nick and Audrey."

"Who's Audrey?"

"Audrey Gardner, Elizabeth's online alias." 

Peter shook his head in mock despair. "Of course Elizabeth has an alias. Next it'll be fake IDs. Do me a favor and don't let her talk you into anything stupid."

Neal smirked at the thought of Elizabeth leading him astray. "I'd have thought you'd be more worried about the other way around."

"I know my wife," said Peter. "She's watched a lot of Cary Grant movies. She thinks cat burglary's sexy."

"Well, she's not wrong," said Neal, and laughed at Peter's reaction. He stepped closer, backing Peter against the wall, and murmured, "I won't get her arrested, I promise."

"Comforting." Peter put his hand on Neal's chest, his thumb stroking in the open vee of his shirt. "Believe it or not, she's not the only one I'm worried about." His tone, his expression were so warm they made Neal's eyes sting.

He swayed closer. "So you're okay with Audrey and Nick, then?"

"I gave you the IOU, didn't I?" said Peter in his low rumble, drawing Neal in like a magnet. They were alone, and Neal was about to steal a kiss when a familiar voice sounded down the hallway.

"Excuse me, could you could direct me to—Nicholas?" 

Neal stepped back smoothly and turned, hiding his surprise at seeing Maddy Dentworth approaching. She looked decidedly out of place in the drab hallway with its fluorescent lights. She was wearing a low-cut, flowing olive gown, her hair was tied back with a few stray ringlets hanging loose, reminding Neal of an art deco brooch, and she was carrying an antique lace scarf. "Maddy, good to see you again. What are you doing back here?"

"Not dressed for dinner, Nick?" 

He shrugged. "I didn't merit an invitation."

"Then what on earth are you doing here?" Maddy frowned. "Lurking behind the scenes of a society event. It's not exactly normal behavior, is it?" Her tone was significantly cooler than the last time he'd seen her, either due to Audrey cutting her out the other night or whatever she'd seen just now. Neal hoped it was the former.

"Are you looking for someone?" asked Peter, intervening. He seemed unfazed by Maddy's arrival. Neal guessed after facing down Diana all week, dealing with an interfering patron of the arts was a piece of cake.

Maddy turned to him. "Paul, is it?"

"Phil," said Neal quickly.

Maddy ignored him. "A ridiculous young man spilled his wine on my mantilla. It's an antique."

"I'm sure my wife will be able to help," said Peter. Neal caught his eye and gave a small sharp headshake. "Or her assistant," Peter amended. "I'll take you to Yvonne."

"See you later," Neal told Maddy politely.

"And me," said Peter. "That's what I came to tell you. Yvonne suggested I make myself scarce."

"Getting in the way?" said Neal, unable to help teasing, despite Maddy's presence.

"Apparently," said Peter, smiling back.

"Well, I think I'll stay and help out," said Neal. "Lend a hand." Elizabeth wouldn't be busy all evening, and he'd already enlisted the band's assistance for when the moment was right.

Peter nodded and might have said something else except that Maddy sighed irritably. He clapped Neal on the shoulder and then turned to her. "This way, ma'am."

Neal watched them leave, Maddy's back very straight, Peter more relaxed than Neal would have expected under the circumstances. He was probably anticipating getting home and settling in on his beloved couch. No doubt a sports game of some kind awaited him. And if Neal could have been in two places at once, he would have gone with him, sports or no. But constrained by reality as he was, he needed to see Elizabeth. Audrey.

An echo of his earlier nostalgia for the old days with Kate and Moz hung in the air, tainted now with unease. The good old days hadn't been all good, and Maddy had been a witness as well as a mark. On the other hand, it was unlikely she'd indulge in friendly conversation with Peter in her current mood, and even more improbable she'd reminisce if she did. There was no such thing as a curse.

 

*

 

Neal was back near the stage, enjoying the music and resolutely not worrying about anything—he didn't want to turn into Peter, needlessly anticipating disaster—when Elizabeth spoke in his ear. "Nick."

"Audrey." Neal turned slowly, his body going warm at her nearness. She'd changed into the red dress she'd worn to the Marlborough the other night, and there was a sparkle of heat and excitement in her eyes that took his breath away. 

"I got your text message." She slid her arm around his waist.

He reciprocated, drawing her against his side but making himself stop there. He wanted to hold her so tight their bodies merged, to kiss her mouth and neck and make love with her, but the aim here was romance and adventure. Anticipation was key. 

"You look beautiful. Everything under control?" he asked, keeping his voice steady despite the skip in his pulse.

"Ten more minutes of entrée, twenty-five for dessert, then the speeches," she said, light and professional despite the flush in her cheeks. "Yvonne's handling it."

"In that case—" Neal looked through a small gap in the curtains and signaled to Chen. Chen nodded, and a moment later the music transitioned into "Cheek to Cheek." "Dance with me?" said Neal.

"Yes." No doubt or hesitation. They moved away from the curtains and into each other's arms, and it was obvious from the first step or two that she was at ease on the dance floor, that she loved it. They were amazingly well-matched—how had it taken Neal so long to see that? 

His hand slid over her hip. He could pick locks blindfolded and read braille at a pinch, and maybe her underwear was gossamer sheer and perfectly fitting, but he didn't think so. "Audrey?"

She grinned at him, swaying against him, provocative and gorgeous. Then her eyes widened guiltily. "I have to make a confession."

"Tell me," said Neal, distracted by her long dark eyelashes, the soft curve of her jaw, the press of her body.

She cleared her throat, and her gaze dropped to his mouth. "This morning I, um, checked your tracking information. I know I had no right, but—" She glanced up, checking his reaction.

Neal raised an eyebrow, teasing her. "But?"

"It was kind of a turn-on," she said, blushing. Despite her self-consciousness, her gaze was bright with mischief. "A big turn-on, actually, trespassing into your life." 

"Really." The idea of her getting aroused looking at a map on the marshals' website was at once hilarious and erotic, and he would have teased her mercilessly if he weren't overcome with near-debilitating arousal himself. 

She batted her eyelashes at him, and when he tightened his hold on her, she said, "What?" her voice low and husky and warm against his neck.

"Counting my blessings," he said.

"So you forgive me?" 

Neal bent his head and brushed a kiss across her cheek, glorying in the shiver that ran through her. "Audrey, you can take any liberty you want with me—though you know, I'd really like to be there in person next time."

"Maybe we can trespass into your life together," she said wickedly. "Oh, that gives me an idea."

Neal laughed. "Peter's warning is starting to make sense." She tilted her head, and he clarified, "He said you were trouble."

She snickered. "I think you can handle it, Nick." Her thumb stroked across the back of his hand. It was a chaste gesture; his reaction was anything but. "Meet me by the elevators in half an hour," she said. "Bring a lock pick."

"No getting arrested," said Neal. "I promised Peter."

She stepped back, out of his hold, and spread her hands wide. "Trust me." She turned away without waiting for an answer, throwing him a laughing challenge over her shoulder as she left.

Neal slid his hands in his pockets and tried to get his head together, captivated and helpless. Definitely trouble. He hoped she wasn't planning on stealing anything, because the way things were going, he didn't think he could summon the willpower to say no to her.


	47. Chapter 47

El checked Teri was happy and the serving staff didn't have any questions, reconfirmed that the Wickenham CEO and the guests of honor were set for their speeches, and then went looking for her second in command; once she'd made sure there were no outstanding issues, no one would care if she disappeared for an hour or so. 

She stuck her head into the side room where some of the event staff were taking a quick meal break of their own. "We're on the home stretch. Where's Yvonne?"

Fiona looked up from her soup mug. "She's talking to a guest about a shawl."

"Antique lace mantilla," said Robbie. "In the ballroom. You need something?"

"I'm fine, and you're on a break." El went to stand inside the banquet door, out of the way of the serving staff, and scanned the room, noting as she did so that, curse or no curse, the evening was going well. The music was at precisely the right volume for the venue, people were savoring their food with enthusiasm and the conversation was animated. A swell of laughter arose at a nearby table, giving her a warm glow of satisfaction in a job well done.

Yvonne was off to the side of the room with a guest, making placatory gestures over a handful of fabric. El waved discreetly to get Yvonne's attention, waited, and then waved again. When Yvonne finally noticed, the guest looked around too, following her gaze. It was Neal's friend, Maddy.

El waved again with a cheery smile and left before they could summon her across and draw her into their exchange. Dammit. She'd forgotten Maddy Dentworth was on the guest list. Now Yvonne would inevitably reveal her true identity, and El would have to explain why she'd introduced herself as Audrey the other night. Maybe she could claim to be a spy, an undercover agent for the FBI, a protected witness—

Her wild fabrications were interrupted by Yvonne, who emerged from the ballroom alone, thank goodness. "El," she said, her eyebrows heading for her hairline, "why does Maddy Dentworth think your name is Audrey Gardner?"

"Oh, it's an inside joke." El tried her best to look innocent. "Did you set her straight?"

Yvonne shook her head. "She's making a big deal about one of the other guests spilling wine on her scarf. I just wanted to escape."

El let out a breath of relief. "Thanks."

Not that it mattered what Maddy thought, but El didn't want to give her any cause for condescension, and there was no dignified way to explain playing name games at the Marlborough, especially not without raising questions about Nick Halden's true identity.

Nick. El glanced at her watch. It was time. "Speeches are about to start," she said to Yvonne. "Peter and Neal have gone home. I'm going to leave everything in your capable hands for an hour or so, okay? I need a drink."

"No problem," said Yvonne. "Annoying guests aside, it's kind of fun running the show. I think the power might be going to my head."

El grinned. "I'd better watch my back. Next thing, you'll be staging a coup."

"Oh, I'm not stupid enough to take you on," said Yvonne. "I know my limitations."

El laughed and hurried off, reassured that everything would be fine. 

Neal was waiting by the elevators. He was still in his distinctive green shirt and khakis, but he'd unrolled his sleeves, and he was leaning casually against the wall, looking suave and gorgeous. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and El's heart flip-flopped. "Hi."

"Hi. What's the plan?" he asked.

"Fun," she said. "But first I need you to get us through this door." She pointed to the stairwell door marked Authorized Access Only. It was in a slight recess.

Neal looked through the narrow, wire-reinforced window. "There's an alarm."

It was an observation, not a declaration of defeat, and she had no doubt he could circumvent any security measure she put in front of him, but tackling the alarm would be an unnecessary risk.

"I have the code," said El. "One of the benefits of venue hire." She also had a key to the door, but she didn't tell him that. It would have ruined the moment. "Can you pick the lock, Nick?"

Neal sent her an amused glance as if he could see right through her, but he just said, "You keep lookout."

So El stood by the elevator and pretended to check her phone, making sure stray security guards and misplaced guests didn't interrupt them, her senses tingling as if this were a real break-in. It took Neal an interminable thirty seconds or so. She suspected he was taking it slow to add to the suspense. Then he let out a low, two-note whistle, and she turned to see him halfway through the door, reaching for the alarm keypad.

"Code?" he said.

"Audrey," called a woman's voice across the foyer. "Could I have a word?"

"Oh hell, it's Maddy," said El. "The code's 8902. Go! I'll catch up." 

Neal looked like he wanted to say something, but the alarm beeped a warning and he slipped through the door, letting it shut behind him. 

El turned, pasting on a smile, hoping he'd escaped without being recognized. "Hello, Maddy. I trust you're having a good evening. Please excuse me, there's something I need to attend to."

"So, history repeats." Maddy came right up to her, ignoring the brush-off. Her stance was looser than it had been at the Marlborough. El thought she might be drunk, but her diction was as crisp as ever.

El kept her smile in place. "I beg your pardon?"

Maddy shifted her weight to one hip. "You know, I had high hopes for Nick once, but he's always been trapped in a certain way of life. He's shiftless." She studied El. "At least his taste has improved."

El raised her eyebrows. "Thank you, I think?" But Maddy's expression was mocking, as if she weren't referring to El at all. El's understanding clicked into place. Maddy knew Neal from back in the day, and that meant—Kate. El's curiosity re-awoke. "You knew his former partner."

"Both of them," said Maddy. "That young girl, Caroline, and Michael Clark, a disturbing little man. And I assure you, there was more to both of them than professional partnerships."

Caroline had to be Kate, which would make Mozzie Michael Clark. The idea of Moz as Neal's lover was bizarrely improbable, but El could imagine his likely reaction to this woman. He'd probably been baiting her. Regardless, El couldn't resist leaping to his defense. "I know Michael. He's—idiosyncratic. An original."

"Always so territorial, glowering in the background." Maddy made a moue of distaste. "Of course, it made no difference. That's something you need to understand about Nick—he won't be faithful." She looked down her nose at El. "You'll never keep him to yourself."

El bit back a laugh. "I'll keep that in mind. And now, I really have to go."

"I suppose some people must insist on finding things out the hard way." Maddy turned to leave, stumbling slightly as her heel slid on the polished stone floor. Definitely drunk. El really should see her safely back to the banquet, but she was feeling neither responsible nor charitable right now. 

She tried the door handle, and Neal immediately opened it from the other side, letting her into the stairwell. "What did she say?" 

El grinned. "I'll never have you all to myself, apparently." 

"She saw me talking to Peter earlier and may have drawn certain conclusions," said Neal ruefully.

"Did you antagonize her, Nick?" El raised an eyebrow, teasing. She started up the stairs. "Rule number one of event management: don't antagonize the guests."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Neal, following her. "So, Audrey, where are we going?"

"The roof." She could feel his presence behind her like the sun on her back, and she quickened her step, acutely aware they were really, properly alone. No one would find them here. They could do anything.

 

*

 

El shivered lightly as she stepped onto the roof. The night air was cool but still, and the city spread out around them in a magical panorama. Neal lived every day with a view like this, but for her it was something special. She hoped he'd understand that.

She went to the parapet, which was waist high and several feet deep, and gazed at the lights until her eyes watered. He was behind her, so close she only had to lean back and she'd be in his arms. Instead she moved away to the west side, looking out over the river. She felt nervous, reckless, alive.

"Audrey?" His voice was a caress.

"I wanted to lay the city at your feet." _Make up for that damned tracker,_ she thought, but she didn't say that part aloud. Better to live in the fairytale.

"It's beautiful." From his tone, she knew he wasn't looking at the view.

She licked her lips. She hadn't touched him since the dancing earlier, and anticipation sensitized her skin so profoundly the feeling seemed to spread outward until the whole city hummed and throbbed with her pulse. She stole a sideways glance at him, wondering if he felt it too. In the orange glow, he looked like a stranger, handsome and mysterious, like a wolf come to swallow her whole. But that was an illusion—he was Nick, Neal, hers and Peter's. She knew him. And what she wanted more than anything in that moment was to claim him.

He was hers to claim. The thought made her ache with arousal.

She reached out and hooked her little finger through his, that one small contact shocking, and then his fingers entwined with hers so they were palm to palm, his grip sensual and appreciative, and then they were kissing—alone in the dark, a man and a woman, raw and passionate. El struggled to get back to the michievous tone of before, to get back to Audrey. "Any liberties I want?" she said, but the words came out rough and desperate, not at all how she intended.

His arm was around her neck, supporting her head, and he kissed her like he couldn't stop, his tongue delving between her lips, his hand low on her ass, all of it undeniably sexual, and she wanted him inside her now, _now._ She reached for his belt buckle, felt his breath catch, his arms tighten as if he couldn't help himself even if it hampered her progress. "Audrey," he said, almost a gasp. Then, as she took him in her hand, "El."

She started to hitch her skirt up, impatient with its folds, but he raised his head. His eyes were darker than the sky, his teeth pale in the shadow of his face.

"Wait," he breathed. 

"I—" El swallowed, torn with disappointment. 

"One second. Just—" He was fumbling with his wallet, taking out—oh. A condom. Good thing at least one of them was thinking straight.

And then he lifted her to sit on the edge of the parapet. The concrete was cold and rough through her skirt, but she didn't care because his hand was sliding up her thigh, gathering her skirt, and oh God, he was pushing into her in one long, smooth stroke. El wrapped her arms and legs around him and held on, burying her face against his neck, turned inside out by the physicality of it—his erection inside her, intimate and hot and real, and the abrupt snap of twelve years of sexual exclusivity. For a moment, she missed Peter so fiercely that a sob formed in the back of her throat, but then Neal moved into her, demanding her attention, flooding her with excitement, and she dissolved into him and the night and pure, torrid sex, remembering that she wanted this, that Peter had said yes, that she was with Neal because she loved him and he loved her. 

She rocked to meet him, driven by renewed urgency, but he was slowing, his hands on her thigh and her neck, his mouth seeking hers, kissing her tenderly. He pulled back, and their eyes locked in the dark, and it was as though she could feel his heartbeat in her own chest, as if they were connected far beyond the steady thrusts of his cock, in and out. She could feel his pleasure mounting, see it in the clench of his jaw, hear it in the long groan that escaped him that might have been her name. 

She slipped her hands under his shirt, over the firm muscles and smooth skin of his chest. Peter had touched him here, just like this. Peter had been naked with him, and the connection was potent—Neal here with her, making love with her, and the ghost of her husband embracing each of them. She threw her head back, panting hard, her tension twisting tight. The sky was endless above them, and she was so close she felt dizzy.

"Audrey," he said breathlessly. "El—"

"Mmm?" She left the sky to its mysteries and looked at him again, not sure who they were, who she was supposed to be, but too far gone to figure it out. It didn't matter. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, and she turned her head to catch it between her teeth, and then there was some subtle shift of angle or pressure, or maybe it was just time—her tension peaked and crested, and she clenched around him and cried out as waves of velvet-dark exhilaration and tangled love engulfed her. 

He swore and pulled her closer, crushing her to him and murmuring a stream of endearments into her hair. She knew the moment when he lost control and, still wracked with her own pleasure, held him through it as though she were comforting him, as if their hearts were cracking open, leaving them vulnerable and irrevocably joined.

For a long time, El held him, waiting for their blood to stop racing, for it to feel normal and real. Neither of them spoke. 

El bit her lip. Whatever they said now would set the tone for their relationship—Nick and Audrey or El and Neal; playful and daring or grounded in their real lives with all the complications and simple intimacies that would inevitably bring—and she was split in two, not knowing which she wanted more.

He touched her cheek and kissed her, slow and sweet. "Wow, you are—" he started, but he trailed off, and she saw the same uncertainty mirrored on his face. 

She smiled and kissed him, taking the silent, coward's way out. They'd figure it out together, one way or the other. Just not yet. For now, both possibilities were too delicious to give up.


	48. Chapter 48

Peter couldn't stop thinking about El. He made himself a sandwich and took Satchmo out, and the whole time his brain treated him to an involuntary slideshow of moments from their life together, from the early days—the first time she stayed over, her luminous smile the next morning; the reassuring hand she placed on Peter's arm the first time he met her father—down through the years: crouched down to croon to Satchmo when he was a new puppy still crying for his mom; being infinitely patient and sympathetic and hiding the car keys when Peter broke his ankle and was housebound for a week; the first time he saw her cry, when her grandmother died; her 34th birthday when they went horse trekking up-state and El hated it but they still somehow had a good time. A thousand moments when their eyes met across crowded rooms, sharing a joke, and he knew for certain she was the only woman in the world for him. 

The memories wouldn't stop: the time she got the flu just after starting her business, when she was feverish and fretful, orchestrating a wedding by remote control from the bedroom, and how she pulled it off and he brought her celebratory toast because it was the only food she could keep down. And in more recent years, Bureau commendation dinners and neighborhood barbecues, going to the dog park and bowling. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of nights on the couch together, discussing cases and parties and Neal; her giving Peter his old watch in a gift box; her telling him about the IOU. 

That time years ago when Peter had escorted her to dinner with clients—a smarmy know-it-all from Tallahassee and his nervous wife—and Peter had been convinced the guy was hiding something, the way he smirked at Peter's profession, there was just something about him (and sure enough, Peter had arrested him for insurance fraud two weeks later); and how El had released Peter from any such future husband-on-the-arm obligations without reproach, because she understood. She'd always been more outgoing than he was, always enjoyed getting dressed up, drinking champagne and eating fancy finger food at society events.

Neal could give her that, and with a lot more style and flare than Peter had ever managed. He'd enjoy it.

Peter made himself stop, before he got lost down that path. He had his own place in El's life. He didn't have to fulfill every one of her needs. It was okay that she was in love with Neal, and he with her. She'd been encouraging Peter's new relationship, fearless in the face of it. She'd bought them a goddamned cake. Peter owed her, he loved her, and he wasn't going to get in her way, even if it scared him. Even if there was a chance he could lose her.

He'd agreed to Nick and Audrey. He couldn't take it back—wouldn't if he could. Neal and El both wanted it, needed to discover each other in their own space. Peter had to trust them not to leave him behind. And not to get into trouble. Separately, he knew neither one of them would do anything dangerously illegal; put them together in the mood El was in, with Neal smitten and susceptible, and all bets were off. 

But Neal had promised. And El hadn't completely lost her mind. 

Worst came to worst, Peter had a couple of captains at the NYPD on speed dial. 

And who knew, maybe when the novelty of dating Nick Halden wore off, they'd all find their way to the same place, three relationships in one. Because when it came down to it, Peter wanted to be with both of them, together and always. He'd been slow to recognize it, but the notion was under his skin now, sinking into his bones, and the deeper it went, the more perfect it seemed. To be with them, to see them with each other—that would be something else.

Peter sighed and scratched Satchmo behind the ears, then locked up for the night. After events like the banquet, El could be out till all hours, supervising clean-up and unwinding, and with Neal there to assist with the latter—maybe she'd go back to his place. Peter didn't know. He left a light on in case she came home and went upstairs to bed.

 

*

 

The tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck were damp as if she'd just showered. That registered almost before Peter regained consciousness. It was dark, and she was snuggling up against him, her hands sneaking under his t-shirt. "Hey, hon," he mumbled. "Good evening?" His tongue felt clumsy.

"Yeah." She grasped his shoulder, holding him close. "I had sex with Nick Halden on the roof."

"The roof?" Peter frowned. The townhouse's roof was sloped and hard to access. There was a pull-down ladder to the attic, but it had a tendency to stick, and—

"At the banquet," said El, as if she could hear his confusion. 

Then the other, more important part of her news sank in, and a surge of adrenaline brought Peter fully awake. "On the roof," he repeated carefully.

"Yeah." She found his mouth and kissed him in the dark. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course." Peter didn't know how he was, but he knew he had to be happy for her. He stroked her hair. "Congratulations. Where's Neal? Did he come home with you?"

"He went back to June's." El stretched away from him, and the light clicked on. Peter screwed up his eyes against it. "You know, hon, I had months to get used to the idea of sharing you. You've had, what, twenty-four hours? It's okay if you're feeling weird about it."

"I'm not feeling weird," said Peter automatically.

The corner of El's mouth turned down. "So you had a perfectly normal night."

Peter met her gaze and saw warm understanding there. He pulled a rueful face and sighed. "Okay, maybe it's a little weird. It's new. But I want you to be happy."

"Glad to hear it," said El, and he could tell she was trying to tease him, but there was a slight wobble in her words.

"Are you okay?" he said. "Was it—?"

"It was weird. I mean, really good and—you know. Neal." She twined their hands together, arranging his fingers how she wanted them while she considered. "But he's not you. And I—I'm still figuring out what it means to love both of you. How that works." She looked up and touched his face. " _I love you._ "

Peter pulled her close again. "You are the best thing that ever happened to me."

She butted his shoulder and then pulled back, a mischievous gleam entering her eye. "What about Neal?" 

"Second best," said Peter promptly. El raised an eyebrow, but he didn't back down. "I bet he'd say the same about me now."

He half expected her to deny it, to reassure him he came first with Neal, but she just grinned, blushing. A moment later, her smile faded into solemnity. "He could never take your place."

"I know," said Peter, and a small, nagging doubt eased deep in his chest. El shifted, restless, and he smoothed his hand down her back. There was something else. "But?"

"But I really wanted to go home with him tonight," said El quietly.

"You could have. I thought you might."

"I needed to be here more." El took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then she burst out laughing. "God, Peter, how did we both get so lucky?"

"You mean with our brilliant, sexy boyfriend?" 

"And our brilliant, sexy spouses." She winked.

"We must be doing something right." Peter got up on one elbow and leaned over her, giving her a slow lingering kiss, pouring his heart into it. Then he looked down at her and raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You had sex on the roof?"

"Yeah," said El, dreamy now. "I'm discovering a whole new me."

Peter swallowed a pang and reached across her to turn out the light. He drew her close in the dark, in the cocoon of their bed. "What else did you discover?"

"Let's see." She settled against him and snickered. "I discovered Neal has a really nice cock." 

Peter snorted. "I could have told you that."

"But you didn't, did you? I had to find out for myself." He could hear her grin. "I learned Yvonne could take over the business tomorrow if I decide to retire, and Teri makes the best dark chocolate fondant on the Eastern Seaboard. Oh, I found out one of Mozzie's old aliases. It's—"

"Don't tell me," said Peter quickly. Neal would not be happy if Peter stumbled across any of Mozzie's no doubt numerous past crimes.

"Plausible deniability?"

"What little I have left." Peter yawned.

"Well, it serves him right, anyway. He deserves to have some of his secrets revealed after interfering like he did." Her hand was a soft weight on his chest. "You want to go back to sleep?"

"Whenever you're ready," he told her. "It's your night."

"Thanks, hon." A yawn stretched her words too. "Dog park tomorrow?"

Peter smiled at the normalcy of it: no wild, trouble-making Audrey; just his El. "Sounds good."

On the other side of the city, Neal was probably asleep. Was he dreaming of them, his lovers? Peter wished he could reach out to him, wished there was a way to spend the next day alone with each of them at once, but the laws of physics weren't as malleable as the laws of the state, even with Neal's genius for rule-bending at their disposal. Peter was going to have to learn to share not just his partners' bodies and affections but their time and attention too.


	49. Chapter 49

Neal made himself wait until nine before he called. It was Sunday morning, and the day before had been a rollercoaster for all of them. The Burkes deserved a chance to sleep late. He drank two cups of coffee, made some eggs, showered and shaved and then got out his leather embossing equipment and a few scraps of gold leaf.

Even with those distractions, patience could only stretch so far, and by nine o'clock his had run out.

Peter answered. "Hey, Casanova."

"Elizabeth told you." 

"About your rooftop rendezvous? Yeah, she told me." He sounded easy and warm, but Neal still needed to check. 

"We still good?" 

"I love you," said Peter. "Nothing's going to change that."

Neal took the phone over to the French windows. The day was overcast but not unwelcoming. "Yeah, but are we—"

"We're good," said Peter, his smile audible. "I'm pleased it's working out with you and El."

Neal leaned his forehead against the doorframe and breathed. "Okay, good. Can I speak to her?"

"In a minute."

Neal grinned. "Aw, feeling left out, Mario?"

"You can make it up to me later," said Peter.

"Count on it." Neal marveled again at his good fortune. "We really need to institute three-day weekends for this sort of thing: one day for each couple."

"Time is an issue," agreed Peter. "But there's no rush. We'll figure it out. I'll see you at work tomorrow, anyway." 

"Yeah." For a moment, Neal longed to be with him now—to bask in his smile, see the warmth in his eyes. To hold him without worrying about the Bureau or anyone else finding out. And there was the agreement for reduced condom usage to take advantage of too. But the line had gone muffled, and in the background, Peter was calling, "Hon, your boyfriend's on the phone."

Neal snickered. "You're enjoying this."

Then Elizabeth picked up, and he closed his eyes, remembering last night.

"No flowers this time, Nick?" she said, teasing.

"Sending flowers leaves a paper trail." Neal glanced at the leather case on the table. "But I have something else for you, Audrey. When can I see you?"

"Peter and I have plans this afternoon, but I'm free tonight." She sounded happy and confident, and just hearing her voice was turning Neal on.

"Perfect," he said. "You want to go out?"

"Not especially. You?"

"Not if the alternative is staying in with you." Neal looked around, already making plans. Just then his door opened, and Mozzie came in carrying a large cardboard box. "Hey man, gimme a minute," Neal told him.

"Is that Moz?" said Elizabeth. "I want to talk to him, please."

"Okay. I'll see you tonight." He passed the phone to Moz and relieved him of the box. "It's Elizabeth."

"Hi, El," said Mozzie, going to pour himself a coffee. "I did not." He sounded shocked. "I would never break your confidence. I simply—Well, yes, I did do that. You're welcome." 

Neal put the box on the table and pushed back its flaps. Inside was a sturdy wooden stand embedded with half a dozen locks.

"What?" Something in Mozzie's tone made Neal look up. Mozzie's eyes had widened behind his glasses, and his voice rose by half an octave and several decibels. "Over an unsecured line? Seriously, El? At least promise me no one currently on the government payroll heard you."

Neal raised his eyebrows, and Moz held up a hand to fend off questions.

"Small mercies," he said, sounding slightly mollified. "No, I— Yes. Okay, see you at book club. Bye." He hung up.

"What was that about?" said Neal.

Mozzie grimaced with distaste and drank a mouthful of coffee. "Why does El think that I am Michael Clark?"

Something cold and unpleasant slithered in Neal's stomach. Oh hell. "Remember Maddy Dentworth?" He gave a small, helpless shrug. Maddy must have said something, and El had got her wires crossed—thank God. Otherwise the evening would have gone in a very different direction. "Did you enlighten her?"

Moz shot him an incredulous, _give me some credit_ look and came over to the table.

"Does Peter know?" The words tasted acrid.

"I don't know if he knows," said Mozzie. "El said he wasn't in earshot." 

If Peter knew he would have said something, wouldn't he? Unless he was waiting for Neal to spontaneously explain, but—No, if Peter knew, he'd be here, demanding answers. Neal forced himself to relax, to access his reserves of confidence and optimism. He was Neal Caffrey; he had the devil's luck, and he knew how to bury a secret.

Moz was surveying the embossing tools, the leather case Neal had been working on, the lock stand in Neal's hands. "So, what's going on?"

Neal put down the stand and slid his hands into his pockets. "I'm giving up the life."

Moz tilted his head forward. More incredulity.

"I have everything I want," said Neal.

"So you're borrowing my practice locks because—"

"I have a new apprentice," said Neal. He was enjoying the slow reveal, but Mozzie just looked impatient. "Elizabeth."

"Ah." Mozzie eyed the name on the newly embossed leather case. "Then who's Audrey?"

"Elizabeth. Long story."

"And one I'm sure I'm better off not knowing." Mozzie sat down at the table and made himself comfortable. He picked up the case. Neal had aged it a little, giving the leather a used look, comfortable but not too worn. "Not bad work. What's your target?"

"We're not targeting anything. She's dabbling."

"You're using crime as an aphrodisiac again," translated Mozzie, disapprovingly. "It's risky. There's nothing so dangerous as an amateur enthusiast. If she gets caught breaking and entering, the Suit will not be pleased."

"Have a little faith," said Neal, taking the seat across from him. "I won't let her get caught, and she's not going to start running side jobs on her own. She'll be fine."

"She'd better be." Mozzie sounded protective. "So wait, you're still sleeping with the Suit, right? And now you're picking locks with Mrs. Suit? Playing with fire, my friend. It's only a matter of time before he notices."

Neal rolled his eyes. "He already knows. I'm dating both of them, separately. Everything open and aboveboard."

Mozzie shuddered theatrically. "Ugh, you know how much I hate that phrase. It reeks of indiscretion."

"And discretion is your middle name, I suppose, Monsieur Mouton-Rothschild."

"That disclosure was purely hypothetical." Mozzie finished his coffee and looked serious. "What are you going to do about the Michael Clark misapprehension?"

"Distract her. Hope it slips her mind," said Neal, quelling his creeping dread. "What else can I do?"

 

*

 

"Lock picks," said Elizabeth, sliding a rake from its narrow pocket and testing it against her fingertip. "Lock picks?"

"Next time we break in somewhere, you're on entry and I'm on lookout," Neal told her.

Her face lit up with excitement. "Then you'd better teach me to use these." 

She was wearing her hair down tonight, a long straight cascade down her back, and Neal wanted to comb his fingers through it, undo the pearl buttons of her blouse one by one and replace each with a kiss, but he held his ground. He hadn't even opened the wine she'd brought yet. He put it on the table and went to get a corkscrew.

She'd put the rake back and was examining the case, the faded gold lettering. "You aged the leather."

"Can't have you looking like a rookie."

She laughed. "So true. Someone might think I don't know what I'm doing and take shameless advantage of me."

"Oh, there's this too." Neal handed her a driver's license. "From Moz. He said there's no use having an alias without ID." 

"This is my photo from the Burke Premier Events website." She slid the card into a hidden pocket in the lock pick case. "Better not let Peter see that."

"He'd let it slide." Neal figured she could get away with just about anything.

"He'd worry." She folded the leather case shut and sent Neal a smoldering look, half challenge, half temptation. "So, where's our next target?"

"I'll let you know," he said, giving up on wine and self-restraint. "Come here."

She tossed the picks onto the corner of the table and came to him. "Thought you'd never ask." She raised her face for his kiss, responding passionately when he wrapped his arms around her. "God, I missed you today."

"I couldn't stop thinking about last night," admitted Neal. "And what might happen tonight. I had the whole evening planned out."

She smirked up at him. "You were going to seduce me with lock picking lessons, admit it." 

"And good food and wine," said Neal, defending himself. "But yeah, pretty much."

She trailed a finger down his neck to the vee of his shirt, unfastened the top button and the next, and then arched a wicked eyebrow. "How about we assume that's already worked." 

Last night had been an adventure—living life literally on the edge—but taking Audrey to his bed was a different proposition entirely. They undressed each other, taking their time, feasting on each other, laughing and heated, and there was no denying the reality of it. He mouthed the soft, pale curve of her breast, smoothed his hands over her belly and licked into her, making her spread her legs wide, gasp and moan, and eventually cry out hoarsely. And when she'd caught her breath, she rolled him onto his back, made a show of wetting two of her fingers and eased them into his ass while she blew him. He came apart in her hands and her mouth, hazily wondering if she was like this with Peter too, or if this were all for him.

They kissed for a long time afterward, teasing and exploring, her hands never quite still on him as if she needed to feel him everywhere, to find out everything. And once they found their second wind, they came together again, slow and deep now, kissing as they fucked in long dark waves of pleasure, her hands clutching at his back, her thighs cradling him. He wanted it to last forever, held on as long as he could, but finally she quaked in his arms, tearing her mouth away and moaning breathlessly against his shoulder, and he was caught in the riptide of her orgasm, and it was like drowning and like coming home.


	50. Chapter 50

Lying on Neal's expensive sheets with his naked body pressed against hers, his hand warm on the small of her back and his lips brushing her shoulder, El felt thoroughly decadent and profoundly relieved that the night before hadn't been a fluke. Gambling her heart had paid off: Nick and Audrey really were perfect for each other.

He mouthed up her neck, grazed his teeth across the soft underside of her chin, making her murmur wordlessly, and then laid his head on the pillow. She smiled. "Hey."

"God, you're beautiful."

She leaned forward to kiss him. "Pot, kettle," she said against his lips, and it was true. With his hair tousled, his straight nose and chiseled jaw thrown into relief by the lamplight, he was stunning. She wished Peter were here to see. "If I had a camera—"

"I could paint you," he said, his eyes glinting wickedly. "Gold ochre on your skin. I could run sable brushes all over your body, every inch of you until you lost control." His thumb teased across her nipple.

Her breath quickened, but other appetites were also pressing. "Mmm, maybe later. Didn't you say something before about food?"

He grinned and sat up to swing his legs over the side of the bed and dispose of the condom. "Coming right up. You want a shower?"

 

*

 

She washed quickly, dressed in his pajama jacket and nothing else and came out to find him making seafood carbonara. "Anything I can do to help?"

He surveyed her appreciatively. "Make yourself at home."

She took him at his word and prowled around his room, exploring, noting the small sculptures and foreign curiosities that might have been Neal's or June's. David's _Cupid and Psyche_ sat half-finished on the easel—definitely Neal's. She picked up his hat from the sideboard and set it on her head, and then by the French doors she discovered a wooden board studded with locks. "What's this?"

He glanced over. "Moz's practice locks."

"Aha!" She moved it to the table, set the hat aside and opened her new lock-pick set, then paused, unsure how to proceed.

He was watching her, amused. "Do you know the basic principles?"

"Tell me."

"It would be easier to show you." But his hands were full of shrimp and mussels. "A lock is a cylinder with a row of pins, all different lengths. Use the torque wrench to turn the cylinder very slightly. That creates a tiny ledge, and then you push up each pin, one at a time, to catch on the ledge. When all the pins are up, the lock will turn."

He made it sound easy. El held up the case. "Which pick?"

"The L-shaped tension wrench on the left, and the pick with the little hook, two along. Yeah. And try the lock on the middle right first."

She hooked the wrench into the bottom of the lock and angled it slightly, putting gentle pressure on the cylinder, then slid in the pick. It was like feeling around in the dark, like making love with her eyes shut. She wiggled the pick up and down, counting. "There are four pins." 

"Yeah. Just think of the pick as an extension of your fingers." He sounded pleased, encouraging, and she was suddenly determined to do this, to get it right. 

She blew a strand of hair out of her face and closed her eyes, visualizing the pins. The first one caught, and she held her breath and started working the next. It was easier than she expected. Even with losing tension on the wrench and having to start again, it took less than a minute to turn the cylinder. "I did it! I picked a lock!"

He looked around, his grin genuine and proud. "You're a natural. Try the next one down."

But she sat back and put the picks back in their case. That much focus was hard work—she needed sustenance before she tried again. "How many buildings have you broken into in your life?"

"More than I can remember." He turned down the heat under the sauce and came over to her, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. "Elizabeth—"

"Audrey." She'd just picked a lock. Elizabeth Burke didn't pick locks.

"Audrey." He looked serious. "You know we don't have to do this. If you want, I can teach you without us going out and putting it into practice."

"No, I want to," she said quickly, with a bright smile. It was too soon for the adventure to end—or to find out what would happen when it did. Without this between them, who would they be? "It's exciting being your partner in crime. Didn't you enjoy it, in the old days—breaking into places, stealing treasures?"

"I thought nothing could ever compare to the thrill of it." A buzzer sounded on the stove, but he ignored it, bending down to give her a lingering kiss. "Took me a long time to realize I was wrong." He winked and went back to the drain the pasta.

She watched him. To her, picking locks and sneaking into restricted areas was a novelty, and Audrey was a persona she was trying on like a sexy Halloween costume, but this had been his life, his profession, and El had been around long enough to know that every occupation had its downside—whether it was long hours and indecisive clients, or stakeouts and red tape, or government surveillance and incarceration.

"Here you go." Neal moved the stand of practice locks aside and set a plate in front of her, derailing her train of thought. "Nick Halden's famous midnight carbonara, only an hour and a half early."

"It smells incredible," she said. "All those restaurant gigs really paid off."

"Yesterday reminded me how long it's been since I cooked." He joined her at the table and poured the wine.

"You've had a varied career, and there are only so many hours in a day. You can't keep your hand in at everything." She took a bite of the carbonara; it was creamy and piquant. "Maddy said you were trapped in a particular way of life—shows what she knows." At the mention of Maddy's name, a frown flickered across his face. El knew she should drop the subject, but she was too curious. "She said she had high hopes for you once. Do you know what she meant?"

"She wanted to set me up with my own art gallery." 

"Wow," said El. "I knew she was rich, but—" A Manhattan art gallery wasn't chump change. "Wow. You could have gone legit." She grinned, teasing him, in some ways glad to know that his former life had been chosen rather than forced by circumstances.

He smiled back, but the tightness in his expression was unmistakable. "There were strings." 

"Your life really isn't like other people's, is it?" She said it lightly, hiding her indignation that Maddy had tried to buy him under the guise of patronage, and then, too late, she remembered all the ways his life was worse than other people's—prison, the anklet, Kate's murder—and she groped for a distraction. "I don't think—I really don't want to steal anything," she blurted. She needed to be able to look herself in the mirror, Peter and her parents in the eye. She didn't want to earn the censure of those she respected, or to hurt anyone. The knowledge had been lurking in the back of her mind, waiting to be expressed since she'd picked the lock, but she'd planned to work up to it gracefully. Spilling out like this, it felt more like a confession or criticism. But having started, she might as well finish. "Or to break the law. And I really don't want to get caught."

"No one wants to get caught, Audrey," he told her, amused, his tension dispelled.

"But I still want to break in somewhere." She tilted her head, presenting him with the conundrum, confident in his ability to solve it.

"We could break into your house in the middle of the night."

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure I want to find out how easy that is to do."

"Plus we'd have to get past your vicious guard dog," he said gravely. "We might have to sedate him."

She burst out laughing. "And Peter would catch me, dressed all in black with one leg in the bathroom window, and have an aneurysm."

"I'll find us a neutral target." He reached across to touch her hand, and their fingers tangled.

"Thank you." They locked gazes, and she nearly dragged him back to bed then and there, swept away by the romance of it again, by how perfect he was. She took an unsteady breath. "Okay, quick time-out?"

"Okay." His eyebrows twitched up curiously, and he swallowed his mouthful of food. 

"I just—" El bit her lip and held his hand tighter. "This, all of this—" She gestured with her fork at the practice locks, the space between them, everything. "Audrey and Nick. I know it's a game—and I'm having a wonderful time, in case you haven't noticed."

"Me too," he said. "But?"

"But we aren't just a game, are we?" said El. "You and me."

Neal leaned forward. "I hope not."

"We're not," said El. "I know who you are beneath the shiny con man tricks and the glamor. I know where you've been."

Neal looked somber. "You don't know everything about me." It sounded like a warning, or the weariness of too many years alone.

She put down her fork, pushed back her chair and went to him, pulling him to his feet. "I know enough to know you're a good man," said El softly, looking up at him. Her mouth was dry, but she said it anyway. "I know enough to know I love you." 

They came together, and he pressed his face to the side of her head and crushed her to him like he was holding on for dear life. She held him, the real him—boyish and vulnerable, playful and quick and kind—and her heart thudded, loving him almost more than she could bear.


	51. Chapter 51

When Peter stepped into the shower on Monday morning he was strongly aware that, other than Satchmo, he was alone in the house. El had stayed over at Neal's—or, more accurately, Audrey had stayed over at Nick Halden's. Peter wasn't sure what the aliases were about, but Nick Halden was undeniably disreputable, and Peter trusted them, he did, but they were both impulsive, and— 

He pulled himself up short. He trusted them. He was happy for them. Really. If it was an anemic, theoretical happiness, that was only because he hadn't seen them together since he dropped them off at the caterer's early on Saturday afternoon, so it seemed abstract and unreal. He didn't know how they were together, what it would be like to see them kiss. Hell, other than an interrupted conversation in a hallway, he hadn't seen Neal at all. 

That was a problem, he decided, as he soaped up: he needed to check in before work, to test himself. After all, Peter might love Neal, but Neal was still sleeping with Peter's wife, and while rationally Peter had no problem with that, and he had no right to have a problem with it, the potential for emotional fallout—awkwardness, jealousy, rivalry—was still there. Peter didn't want to be dealing with that in the glass-walled offices of the FBI. And it was partly an excuse too, because deep down, he just wanted to see Neal. He missed having him in the house, missed the morning sex and the casual intimacy. Introducing Neal and El's relationship into their dynamic felt like a step backward, a distance, and despite himself and his best efforts to be generous, Peter rebelled against that.

Okay, so he'd drop by and pick Neal up for work. Nothing exceptional about that, and it would let him kill three birds with one stone: see Neal; see them together, maybe even _together_ -together if he got really lucky; and test his reactions away from the office. He rinsed off, toweled off and went for his phone.

 

*

 

"—gets to see you all day at work," El was saying in her reasonable voice when Peter let himself into Neal's apartment. "Tomorrow night."

"Work doesn't really count," said Neal, "and tomorrow night is too soon. I'll need to make arrangements. Maybe the weekend." He looked across, welcome on his face. "Hi, Peter."

"Hi," said Peter, smiling back. "No fair negotiating schedules without me." He'd practically run up the stairs, and he was energized and expectant, and they both looked as gorgeous as ever. Neal was knotting his tie, typically stylish, and Peter felt that familiar rush of pleasure at the sight of him, sweetened now with relief that things were still good between them. El was right beside him, also fully dressed, putting on her earrings and drinking a cup of coffee. The vibe was cozy and familiar, but they weren't touching, and El moved away when Peter arrived. He wondered if that were in deference to him, if she too had questioned how he'd react. "You know, there is another solution to sharing our time," he started, but before he could continue, El was coming toward him with a rueful look.

"Sorry, hon," she said. "We're going to have to discuss it later. I need to get to work. Have a good day, okay? Keep safe, both of you." She kissed him and departed almost before he had a chance to return the sentiment, leaving him turned around and bemused.

"Hey," said Neal, coming closer. "You want a cup of coffee?"

Peter nodded, finding his balance again. It helped when Neal handed him the cup and accompanied it with a soft kiss. "Come to dinner tonight," said Peter.

"Can't," said Neal. "I have to plan a surprise for Audrey."

"You have to make arrangements," said Peter, recalling what he'd overheard. "What kind of arrangements?" He drank a mouthful of coffee and put his cup on the table, taking Neal in his arms, glad to have him close. 

Neal touched Peter's face and kissed him, deeper this time, and it was probably only Peter's imagination that he tasted of El and sex, but imagined or not, the suggestion of it stirred something in him, turning him on. 

Neal pulled back, studying him. "Peter—it's just that first rush. You know that, right? We're not trying to exclude you."

"I know," said Peter, and he did know. Neal and El were learning each other, building their connection, sharing secrets and experiences. He already had so much history with each of them, knew both of them inside out, it would be churlish to resent their taking some time. But it was because he knew them so well that it was scary: they were changing each other. When they were finally ready to let him in, would they still be his El and his Neal?

"Hey." Neal was frowning, as if he could read Peter's thoughts. "Come on, don't freak out."

"I'm not." Peter took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He looked around vaguely, hoping for a distraction, a topic to bury his insecurity under—perfectly natural, manageable insecurity; he'd deal with it—and saw a wooden stand with multiple locks embedded in it. No prizes for guessing what that was for, and Neal certainly didn't need practice at lock-picking. "You're teaching El to pick locks?"

"Audrey," said Neal. "She opened all of them. She's a natural."

"Of course she is," said Peter drily. "You know, you should show her your stash. She'd love it."

"Now there's an idea." Neal brightened. "I'd have to get Moz to change the lock for something easier, but— Oh. It's outside my radius. Don't suppose you could let me off anklet this weekend?"

"We promised Diana," said Peter. No unauthorized anklet removals. It was a shame—seeing the stash would have given El the adventure she apparently wanted, and it was in a discreet location where they'd be unlikely to get caught if she practiced her lock-picking on the way in. Plus it was Neal's stash: breaking in wouldn't be illegal. But they had promised Diana.

"Oh right." Neal shrugged, accepting defeat too easily. Peter didn't buy it, might have questioned him, but Neal was grabbing his wrist, twisting it and bringing it up to check his watch, and the gesture—Neal's fingers firm on his skin, the easy familiarity of it—distracted Peter, drawing him in. 

"You know, technically we don't have to be at work for another forty-seven minutes," murmured Neal. "Even with half an hour's travel time—"

"Seventeen minutes. You're such a romantic." Peter ran his thumb along the smooth line of Neal's jaw, rested his hand over Neal's tie with its perfect half-Windsor, feeling the steady heartbeat underneath. "Shame you've already gone to so much trouble making yourself beautiful."

"What's done can be re-done." Neal's eyes darkened, but he didn't move. "Unfortunately, although the spirit is more than willing, the flesh is pretty much tapped out."

"Okay." Peter stepped back, swallowing desire and disappointment both, wondering how many times, how recently— "Well, then we should get going."

"Hey, it's not like we don't have options," Neal pointed out, moving forward so he was in Peter's space again. "Especially now we've got our test results and the rules have changed."

"You don't have to," said Peter. 

"Do you know how long I've been waiting to get my mouth on you? I can't believe we've let two whole days go by."

"But if you're tapped out—"

Neal rolled his eyes and gently shoved Peter into a chair, bending over him so they were eye to eye. "Did you hear any of what I just said? Let me taste you."

Peter's concerns evaporated in a swell of desire, and then Neal was on his knees, working Peter's pants open, and it was like the first time at the Mulberry Street hotel—not romantic by a long shot, but utterly erotic. Both of them being dressed for work and Peter sitting in an upright chair brought to mind all kinds of wildly inappropriate scenarios—at his desk, in the conference room, behind the filing cabinets in the case file stacks—things Peter would never countenance and would be far too nervous to enjoy in reality. The stuff fantasies were made of. 

And then there was Neal's mouth, hot and wet directly on his cock, and Peter gasped and stopped thinking entirely, sliding his fingers loosely through Neal's hair, lost in a haze of pleasure and complex emotions he didn't have the brainpower to untangle. Neal's face was flushed, and he was showing every sign of enthusiasm, sucking wetly and sliding his lips up and down Peter's cock, over and over, his eyes shut in concentration, making a picture that Peter swore to remember. And then Neal blinked and looked up, his gaze blue and intense, and Peter felt everything—the chair under his ass, Neal's hand gripping his thigh, the slippery-rough surface of his tongue—and a sensation like falling or flying. It didn't take long after that. He came hard, shooting into Neal's mouth, and Neal swallowed it down without hesitation.

Peter took a deep, shuddering breath, wishing more than anything that he could strip Neal down, lick him all over till he was hard and suck him off. Hold him for hours. "We really need to figure out a schedule."

Neal wiped his chin on the back of his hand, his gaze hot. "Yeah, we do."

 

*

 

"You're swaggering," hissed Peter, as they walked into the office just over half an hour later.

Neal smirked. "Yep."

"Would you stop?" Peter looked around. The office was quiet and most people were staring at their monitors, probably checking their email or the day's news headlines, but Diana looked up as they arrived.

"Why?" said Neal. He waved to Diana and peeled off to sit at his desk and turn on his computer.

Peter rolled his eyes, squared his shoulders and kept walking.

"Hey, boss. I take it you had a good weekend."

"Yeah, you know, I don't know what it looks like, but—" Peter started to bluster a split second before he realized her eyebrows were raised in amusement, not disapproval. She was teasing him. He relaxed. "Yeah. Busy. El had a banquet and roped us in to help out. How about you?"

"We spent the whole day yesterday at a craft exhibit," she said, long-sufferingly. "One of Christie's friends does a lot of work with wrought iron."

"Tough luck." Peter gave her a sympathetic grin. "Okay, well, I'll see you in the conference room in half an hour."

She checked the time in the corner of her screen. "And after that I'm meeting El for coffee."

Peter blinked. "Anything I should know about?"

"Nope. Just social." Diana picked up a file. 

"Okay, good." Nonplussed, Peter continued up to his office, where he sat down, checked his in-tray and logged on to his computer, all without registering a thing. Aside from the haze of residual satisfaction from his orgasm, he had things to think about: El and Diana were making friends; El was learning to pick locks; and she and Neal were planning something. 

That last one was partially Peter's fault. _She thinks cat burglary's sexy,_ he'd told Neal on Saturday, and now the evidence seemed to point to their planning a B &E for the sheer thrill of it. Oh God, that was exactly what they were going to do. He covered his eyes, staving off the potential for serious catastrophe. He really didn't want to have to talk Hughes into letting it slide after his wife and his CI got arrested breaching the security system of some artistic holy grail together. 

The good news was that, going by Neal's response to the mention of his stash, they hadn't picked a target location yet. Maybe Peter could help with that, find a place within the bounds of Neal's radius where they could legally stage a pretend heist. There were at least a dozen FBI-seized properties in Manhattan. One of those was sure to be suitable.

But FBI-controlled properties were watched over by a private security firm engaged by the Bureau, and while Peter would have no problem lodging the proper paperwork to exempt a location from protection, the act of doing so would leave a suspicious paper trail, one that might tie Peter's hands in the event that Neal and El were caught in the act—say, if someone saw them acting suspiciously and called it in. And appropriating FBI resources for private thrills was exactly the kind of stunt Diana had made him promise not to do.

Dammit. They could break in to a motel room instead. Or perhaps the best answer was to discuss it with Diana and find a way to get Neal out of his anklet.

No, this was Neal and El's plan, their scheme. Peter hadn't been invited to the party, and he couldn't been seen to stick his nose in. On the other hand—

On the other hand, he knew someone who could. A smile spread across his face, and he reached for his phone.

 

*

 

Mozzie was waiting for him on the fifth floor of MoMA, in front of Monet's Water Lilies. He was wearing janitor's coveralls, a green beret and a bushy ginger mustache and reading _Le Monde_. Peter sat next to him on the bench in the middle of the room.

"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye," said Mozzie.

Peter ignored his code. He didn't have time for codes. If he was gone too long, Neal would notice. "Your safe house with the bonsai—"

"You mean Tuesday, the loft I burned when your government friend was on the run from the law and I stepped in to save the day," said Mozzie, folding his newspaper and glaring at him.

Peter sighed. "Yeah. Do you still own it?"

"'Own'—" Mozzie made air quotes. "—in what sense?" 

"I'll take that as a yes," said Peter. "Does Neal know about it?"

Mozzie's gaze narrowed behind his thick lenses. "Not specifically."

"Okay," said Peter. This was perfect. "Do me a favor, mention it to him today, and don't say I told you to."

"And why would I do that?" Mozzie looked about equal parts offended and intrigued.

"Just drop it into the conversation," Peter told him. "Say you have a place, and it's inside his radius."

"What's your angle, Suit?"

Peter stared at the blur of Water Lilies, refusing to be embarrassed. Mozzie already knew he was involved with Neal, and he'd probably heard all about Neal and El. Peter would bet good money the stand of practice locks belonged to him; it was just his style. But knowing Mozzie knew was a long way from discussing it with him. Peter cleared his throat and did his best to skirt the subject. "I think El and Neal are planning a break-in. I just want them to do it somewhere they won't get caught."

"You're asking me to conspire with a jealous husband against a friend." Mozzie huffed. "Two friends. Do you have any understanding at all of the concept of loyalty?"

Peter leveled a look at him. "I'm not jealous."

"Then why not suggest it to Neal openly?"

"I don't want him to think I'm interfering," said Peter.

Mozzie let out an incredulous snort.

Peter directed his gaze back to the painting and made himself say it. "I'm in love with both of them, remember?" When Mozzie didn't reply, Peter sent him a sideways look. "Help me out here. It wouldn't be the first time you've got involved."

"That was for El," said Mozzie.

"This is for both of them. I promise I'll keep it off the record."

"The record?!" Mozzie looked outraged, his eyes widening to circles. "The fact that you would consider putting any of this on the record only proves you have no understanding of the treacherous underbelly of state-sanctioned—"

"I meant I'll keep _them_ off the record," clarified Peter. Mozzie spluttered, and Peter added hastily, "All of you off the record. There is no record."

Mozzie eyed him balefully for a moment and then stood up. "Send me a text message at 5:53 this evening, precisely."

"And say what?" said Peter, bewildered.

Mozzie tucked his newspaper under his arm. "The name of your barber, Suit. The name of your barber."


	52. Chapter 52

Neal covertly scanned the office. Jones was heading for the coffee machine, and Peter and Diana were nowhere to be seen. A fortuitous opportunity Neal couldn't pass up. He grabbed a couple of the gourmet chocolate chip cookies he kept in his desk drawer for emergencies, opened one and bit into it, and then took the other and his empty coffee mug and followed Jones to the kitchenette. 

"Cookie?" he offered. "They're really good."

Jones looked up. "Sure. Thanks, Caffrey."

"So, how's The Mikado treating you?" Neal poured himself a coffee and assumed an air of casual interest.

"They had their final performance on Saturday," said Jones, leaning against the counter, apparently happy to chat. "So on Sunday Leone and I went to a play at the Flea Theater to celebrate." He unwrapped his cookie and took an appreciative bite.

"Nice," said Neal. "I haven't been to the Flea in years. So many places are outside my radius, you know? Tribeca, the West Village, Yankee Stadium—"

Jones raised his eyebrows. "You want to go to Yankee Stadium?"

"You know how much Peter loves his baseball," said Neal. He held up the remainder of his cookie as if a thought had just struck him. "Oh, hey, I don't suppose you could get me out of the anklet Saturday night?"

"For a baseball game? Why don't you just ask Peter?" Jones looked tolerantly amused; it was hard to tell if that was a good sign.

"Well, I would, but I want it to be a surprise. And anyway, you know Peter. He's a stickler for the rules."

"Most of the time," said Jones, deadpan. "He's been known to make exceptions."

"The occasional compromise," agreed Neal, accepting the ribbing with a smug grin. "But you know, he's got a vested interest in this. You, on the other hand, are completely impartial." He looked hopeful.

"Yeah, I am," said Jones, "and I might be happy to help you out, Caffrey—"

"Great!"

"—but I can't. Peter and Hughes are the only ones who can authorize removing your tracking anklet."

"Oh," said Neal, deflated. "I didn't know that."

"But thanks for the cookie." Jones picked up his coffee mug and started back to his desk. 

Thwarted, Neal returned to his own seat. If Peter was the only one who could call off the marshals, and he'd promised Diana he wouldn't, Neal wasn't even going to ask; he didn't want to compromise Peter or risk losing Diana's good will. Which meant that barring another convenient case requiring him to go undercover, he was stuck on the radar, inside his radius. Which in turn meant the stash wasn't an option as a break-in target. He'd have to think of somewhere closer to home.

Fifteen minutes later, he was scrolling through Google Maps looking for inspiration when Diana walked in and stopped at his desk. "Hey," she said. "El told me the news about you two. You okay?"

"Definitely. I'm great." Neal hid a frown, wondering how much El had said, why, and whether it would lead to further fallout. 

But Diana accepted his answer at face value. She seemed serious but not concerned. "Okay, good," she said. "In that case, congratulations. If you hurt either of them, I'll break one or both your arms."

Neal laughed, relaxing and leaning back to meet her eye. Coming from Diana, that pretty much counted as her giving her blessing. "Thanks."

 

*

 

It was a paperwork sort of day with no pressing cases, Peter in and out of meetings, and Neal stuck at his desk with his nose in a pile of files—at least in theory. In practice, he spent most of the morning doodling abstract designs incorporating Elizabeth's profile, the curve of her waist and other distinguishing features, disguising them so no one would know. 

Even with all the time for reflection, he couldn't come up with a good solution to his problem. The Greatest Cake was outside his radius and its entrance was too public for a novice anyway. Most buildings had alarms that would take an experienced team to disable, or security guards, or both. Janzs Walters' office on the docks would have been a possibility—no one would be watching that—but again, it was too far away. Neal's radius hadn't felt so restrictive since he'd been searching for Kate.

The question of where to stage a break-in wasn't Neal's only puzzle: there was also the fact that something was up with Peter. He'd arrived back at the office shortly after Diana, with an air of secretive satisfaction for which Neal would have gladly taken the credit, except the timing didn't add up. Peter hadn't been so pleased with himself when they'd first got to work, so it couldn't be afterglow—something else had happened.

Careful observation provided no clues, and it might be nothing. Maybe Peter would just tell him. So around noon, Neal went up to Peter's office, where Peter seemed to be reviewing a year's worth of case files and typing something into his computer simultaneously. "Got time for lunch?" said Neal.

Peter glanced up. "Yeah, I need a break." He stretched out his neck. "I only have fifteen minutes before my next meeting, though."

Neal held up the bag of sandwiches he'd brought. "I came prepared."

"Deviled ham?" Peter looked hopeful.

"Pastrami on rye," said Neal. Some of Peter's habits did not need to be encouraged. "Trust me, you'll love it."

"Less than two weeks, and you're already trying to change me." Peter cleared a space on his desk, shaking his head, amusement playing around the corner of his mouth. 

"Yep," said Neal, though actually he'd been waging a subtle campaign on this front for years. He settled into the visitor's chair. "So, what's up?"

"Bureaucracy from here to eternity," said Peter. "Quarterly stats. Oh, and Teddy Grissolm's lawyer is throwing his weight around, but the US Attorney's Office is on that." Peter took a large bite of his sandwich and eyed Neal fondly. "How about you? Found a way out of your anklet yet?"

Neal clamped down on his kneejerk response. He wasn't sneaking around behind Peter's back, not really. There was no reason to feel guilty. And Peter didn't look pissed. "No," he said. "Did Jones tell you?"

Peter smirked. "Caught you twice, remember?"

"Smartass," said Neal. Maybe figuring out Neal's secret was what had put the spring in Peter's step. Worse, maybe he was expecting Neal to take him to a ball game. Neal nudged the in-tray aside with this foot and crossed his ankles on the corner of the desk. "Did you know Diana threatened me with violent assault if I screw up with you and El?"

Peter's crinkles deepened. "It's good to have her on side."

"Yeah." They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Neal, sitting safely with his back to the rest of the office, drank in the sight of Peter. It was disorientating and intense to be in the throes of new relationships with two people at once; he almost couldn't contain this much love, this much desire, this much need for time and attention and touch. And he wanted to give them both everything, but he only had one everything to give—though with a little sleight of hand, he could make it look like one and a half. 

For a moment he wished they could combine the affairs, let them blend and blur into one coherent whole, but that would never work: Elizabeth had explicitly chosen Nick Halden over Neal, and this wasn't like all the times Neal had been undercover and Peter had followed his lead: this was Neal playing at being someone else in their private spaces—over dinner, over breakfast, in bed. Peter would hate that. Haldenisms exasperated him as much as they pleased Audrey. 

What's more, Peter didn't have any interest in magic tricks and mysteries for their own sakes—he always wanted to solve them, to discover what was behind the curtain. Nick and Audrey were an enchanting game of make-believe that would collapse under too much scrutiny—especially if the scrutiny was Peter asking _Why? What's the point?_ with his no-nonsense analysis. 

So the math was simple: the Burkes wanted him to be two different people, and Neal could only be those people one at a time. 

"You sure you won't come to dinner?" Peter chose that moment to ask, proving his obliviousness.

The lure of it, of a quiet night with Peter and El—hanging out on the couch, even seeing Satchmo—was strong, but right now, the way things were, it was out of reach. At some point, he was going to have to explain that to Peter. For now, he stalled. "Not tonight. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, anything you want. Come to my place."

"Okay," said Peter, clearly trying to hide his disappointment. 

Neal dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Hey, remember the part where I love you, and I want you, and we're really good together? That hasn't changed. Like you said, we just need to figure out our schedules."

"I know," said Peter. "I just didn't expect to find myself competing—" He broke off, his gaze flicking to the door, and crumpled his sandwich wrapper. "We'll talk about it later."

Hughes was standing in the doorway. "Peter, they're expecting us on level twenty-five."

Peter shrugged into his suit jacket and straightened its collar. He looked authoritative and untouchable. "Later," he said to Neal, quietly, grabbing a file folder from his desk. He headed for the door where Hughes was waiting. "I'm ready." 

Once they'd gone, Neal sighed and let his head fall back so he could study the ceiling tiles. He needed to clone himself or something. Seventeen minutes at the start of the day was not enough time.

 

*

 

He was standing on the patio that evening, admiring the view and waiting for a bolt of genius to guide his plans—it would happen; these things just took a little time—when Mozzie turned up. 

"Flying solo tonight, I see," Mozzie said, helping himself to a bottle from the wine rack.

"Yeah." Neal briefly contemplated explaining his dilemma, but Moz's opinions, while not as down-to-earth as Peter's, could be just as uncomprehending. "How's the fractal antenna going?"

"Progress is elliptical. I'm waiting on—" He was interrupted by the chime of a new text message. He pulled out his phone and checked it. "Oh, dammit!"

"Everything okay?"

"I have the most ineffectual realtor in the history of the profession," said Mozzie. "Although, to be fair, I did select her for her discretion rather than her proficiency, but even so, it's a mystery how she stays in business. My second-favorite safe house has been on the market for months, and there's barely been a nibble."

Neal's ears pricked up. He would never have asked Moz to sacrifice a safe house just for an evening's entertainment, not even for Audrey. The safe houses took effort and resources to keep hidden, and Neal respected Mozzie's security arrangements too much; they'd saved him on numerous occasions. But if Moz were already getting rid of a place, that was a different matter. "Where exactly is this safe house?"

Mozzie huffed and took a deep drink of wine. "It already bears invidious government bootprints, so I suppose there's no need to keep it secret. It's Tuesday, a loft on the fringe of the Garment District. It was the perfect safe house, too—discreet entrance, no inquisitive neighbors, plenty of light. You know, I burned it taking down Stan Volker."

"You did a good thing, Moz," said Neal. "I assume the loft is vacant? I want to see it." He went inside to get his leather jacket.

"Now?" Mozzie drained his glass and poured another. "I came here to give you an update on the antenna."

"You can tell me on the way," Neal told him. "I need a place for Elizabeth and me to break into this weekend."

"Oh, by all means." Moz gulped down his second glass and stood up. "Trample the last echoes of my sanctuary, why don't you? Sully it however you want."

"Thanks, Moz." Neal ushered him out the door.

 

*

 

"Moz, this is perfect." The loft was spacious, with exposed wooden beams, wide doorways, peeling paint and a slight air of neglect. As Neal looked around, his imagination supplied a number of decorating possibilities. He went into the next room, where there was a large low plinth in the middle of the floor, filled with sand. "Zen garden?"

"It was," said Mozzie gloomily, "but that was before my chi was befouled by the Man. Now it's a sandbox."

"Never mind, I'm sure the next Tuesday will be even better," said Neal.

"Oh, I can call the next one A Week From Tuesday," said Mozzie, cheering up. "That's good. So, what do you need, here? Locks?"

"Mid-range beginner's, no modifications."

"Alarm system?"

"Surprise me." Neal was turning three-sixty, taking in the space again, excitement kicking in. "Moz, I've got an idea, but I'm going to need your help."

 

*

 

Several hours later, they'd chalked lines on the floor to prepare for Mozzie's friends who were coming in the next day to help out, and Mozzie had replaced the locks. Neal was hauling a bunch of weird junk—a stuffed owl, some boxes of books, piles of old magnetic tapes—into a closet off the entranceway, while Mozzie called the realtor to make sure she didn't have any viewings planned for the next week.

"Seriously?" said Mozzie into the phone. "Weren't you supposed to, you know, tell me when you made a sale?" There was a pause. "When? Can you negotiate? Okay, fine." He hung up and looked at Neal. "Bad news," he said. "The loft's just sold, and the new owners are taking possession this Friday."

"I thought you said there was barely a nibble," said Neal, stacking the tapes in the corner.

"I was misinformed. Wanda sold it to a Japanese publishing house last week. Sorry, man."

Neal wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Stall them."

"I can't," said Mozzie. "It's a done deal."

Neal stood up and put his hands on his hips. "Maybe you could delay if you talked to them?"

"Directly?!" Mozzie looked horror-stricken. "The first rule of property transactions is never talk to anyone. Ever. That's why I have Wanda." He rescued the owl and put it on a shelf, where it stared down at them. "Look, the publishing house has contractors coming in on Friday morning to install phones and internet and start the fit-out. You've still got two days."

"Three days," said Neal. "We'll do it Thursday night." That would give them time to get ready, and he could still spend tomorrow evening with Peter.

"Two days," said Mozzie. "We'll need to clean up afterward, dismantle the installations and pack everything away."

Neal sighed. "Wednesday night."

"We've done more with less."

"Fine," said Neal, reluctantly. He wouldn't get to see either Peter or Elizabeth before then, outside of work, but every plan required preparation, and preparation required sacrifice. The loft was too good an opportunity to pass up, even with the time restriction. Audrey would understand, and he could make it up to Peter big time when the break-in was over.


	53. Chapter 53

El refreshed her email for the eighth time and nibbled on a donut, feeling about as motivated as a block of wood. She needed to invoice Wickerton, she had two new proposals to write, and she still hadn't persuaded Kierta to finalize the damned contract. Clients and staff alike were relying on her to be responsible and sensible, to keep the business ticking over, and all she wanted to do was shrug it off and—she didn't know. Learn the intricacies of cat burglary? Join a gang of daring international thieves? Meet Nick Halden in the bar of a luxury hotel, break into the penthouse suite together and have her wicked way with him? 

She was going out of her mind. It was Tuesday morning, twenty-four hours since she'd seen him, and she didn't just miss him; she missed being Audrey.

The leather lock-pick case, wrapped in an opaque plastic bag, was tucked in her purse like a talisman. She'd successfully breached the back door at home—but not the front, because Mrs. Leuschner across the street would have noticed—and the storeroom at work. She'd run out of places to practice. She was on the edge of her seat waiting for a message from Neal, and from that position her daily routines felt bland and monotonous. The night before, at home with Peter—emptying the dishwasher, walking Satch, making coffee—she'd almost felt she was acting out the role of Elizabeth Burke. Peter was still real, thank God, steady and constant, but everything else might as well have been stage props.

It was the anticipation. Once the break-in was over, she'd be able to settle down, be herself again. The three of them would go to dinner and they'd figure out where to take it from here, how to juggle their relationships. They'd make sure everyone got what they needed. But right now life was a dream blurred with excitement, romanticism and a thin veil of guilt that Audrey and Nick were planning a heist, however staged and legal, and Peter didn't and couldn't know about it.

In her defense, Peter and Neal were somewhere in the city this very minute having adventures without her—solving crimes, interviewing witnesses. Maybe Neal was undercover, and Peter was monitoring him from the surveillance van. Maybe they were inspecting a crime scene, analyzing clues and identifying a suspect, drawing on their vast array of knowledge and combined brainpower. El wished she could be part of it or at least see them working together. The way they sparked off each other was like a fireworks display sometimes, or a kinetic work of art.

They must be unbelievable in bed. El's pulse kicked at the thought. After the break-in, she'd ask if she could watch.

"El, are you okay?" said Yvonne. "You look flushed."

"Mmm?" El blinked and pushed her chair back from her desk, forcing her focus back to her surroundings. "I'm fine. Just not in the mood for invoicing."

"Is something wrong?" Yvonne looked pre-emptively sympathetic, and El shook herself. She had everything she wanted. She'd see Nick—and be Audrey—again soon.

"Not a thing," she declared. "I'm planning my next invasion with my Mongol horde."

Yvonne relaxed, and they both looked around as Sandy bounced through the door. "Hi, guys! I'm back and I'm in love."

"Wow, that's was fast," said El.

"Who is it this time?" said Yvonne with a grin.

Sandy stuck her tongue out. "His name is Brian, and he's the sweetest guy in the world. His mom is my grandmother's new caregiver, and he drove her to work yesterday, and we got to talking."

She was practically glowing. El wondered if this new crush would coexist with Sandy's obsession with Neal or oust it.

"Brian from Buffalo?" said Yvonne.

"I have photos." Sandy showed them her phone, with pictures of an ordinary, pleasant-faced young man smiling self-consciously at the camera. "Look at that smile!"

"Nice," said Yvonne. "So are you going to see him again, or is this—"

"He's coming to the city next weekend. We're going to roller derby." 

"Wow, that's a long way to come for a date," said El. 

"Right?" Sandy combed her fingers through her hair and tied it back. "I mean, he's going to catch up with friends too, but he's really coming to see me." 

"Romantic," said Yvonne. "Congratulations."

"Aww, Sandy's got a boyfriend," said El. "Good for you." The temptation to show off her lock-pick set and explain about Nick and Audrey was there, but it wasn't an option, and besides, this was Sandy's moment. 

"Thanks, El." Sandy tore her gaze from her phone for a moment. "So, how did the banquet go? Death and dismemberment?"

"The only casualty was a lace shawl," said Yvonne.

 _And my sanity,_ thought El, hugging her secret affair to her. 

"You managed okay without me?" Sandy sounded pleased and disappointed at the same time.

"It's a miracle, isn't it?" Yvonne grinned, teasing. "El got Neal to stand in."

Simply hearing his name spoken aloud sent an illicit thrill down El's spine, but Sandy just said, "Cool," and went to her desk to switch on her computer. Her phone was still clutched in her hand. Apparently the lure of the gorgeous, unattainable Neal had been eclipsed.

El bit her lip; she was right back where she'd started: keeping secrets from her friends. She had a trusted confidante in Diana now, and it was good to have someone to talk to, but even Diana couldn't know the whole story. She'd never understand. El would just have to take pleasure in being an enigmatic woman of mystery. It made it more exciting, even if it also added to her sense of disconnection.

Half an hour later, her phone finally brought her a message from Neal: _'Morning, Audrey. Meet me tomorrow, 7pm W37th & 7th. Dress casual. Bring picks. XOXOX_

It read like a simple invitation, but to El it was a code: a love note and the promise of adventure combined. Anticipation leaped in her veins, and the rest of the world faded further. This was it. She texted back. _I'll be there, Nick. XXX_

Pressing Send, she wondered how she was going to survive another day and a half with impatience itching beneath her skin—the need to see him, to spread her wings, to test her new-found skills.

She threw herself into her work. It had to be done and it passed the time. She drafted one proposal, going through the motions, and took the other home to work on that evening. Peter had brought files home too, and after dinner they holed up at the table with their laptops, surrounded by a sea of paper, working together companionably.

After an hour or so, El glanced up from her screen and found Peter watching her. She raised her eyebrows. "Hon?"

His mouth twitched into a soft half-smile. "Remember when you were starting Burke Premier Events and I was chasing Neal, sometimes this was our date night?"

"As I recall, we usually indulged in wine and candles too," said El. They'd tried hard to keep the magic alive, compensating for having to bring paperwork into their marriage. These days it hardly seemed an intrusion at all. "You, me and Neal's case file—that's how all this started, you know." She grinned, teasing him. "And you told him 'date night' meant no Neal." 

Peter rolled his eyes. "I'm never going to live that down."

"Maybe one day." She reached across the table. "It's a brave new world, isn't it? You know I'm seeing Neal tomorrow night?"

"Neal or Nick?" said Peter. She couldn't tell if he was serious, if he really understood the distinction, and he didn't wait for her answer. "I know. He has me booked in for Thursday."

"He's a busy man." El glanced back at her screen, but her appetite for work had fled. She closed the laptop.

"Look, hon, I know you two are off enjoying your hijinks, I get it. I'm happy for you." Peter leaned forward. "I'm just wondering if there's a reason—"

"Oh hon," she interrupted, stemming the tide of his worries. She went to him, and when he pushed back his chair, she sat on his lap and put her arms around him. "The hijinks are a temporary madness, I promise you. Everything will go back to normal soon."

His shoulders rose as he inhaled. "Okay."

"Just a little patience," she said, cupping his cheek. "Neal and I are—he's planning an outing for me."

"You're excited," said Peter, and there was no hesitation or judgment in his response, his arms were still around her, he loved her, and El realized like a smack upside the head that she'd been wrong all along when she thought she had no one she could talk to. She had Peter. She'd always have Peter.

"Yeah," she said. "It's a secret, and I don't really know how it's going to go yet. A secret and a surprise." She thought about the text message, about Nick Halden waiting for her on a street corner, with a plan and mischief in his eyes, about the leather lock-pick case in her purse. She buried her face in the crook of Peter's neck. "Did I mention I have an alias now?"

"Audrey Gardner," said Peter. "Neal told me." His hands were on her back, strong and familiar.

"I don't know if you'd approve of her. She's a bit—irresponsible."

"If she's anything like you, I suspect I'd find her completely irresistible." He kissed her. "I'd like to meet her one day and find out for myself."

El snickered and hugged him tight, feeling more like herself than she had all day. "Be careful what you wish for."

 

*

 

Neal was waiting for her, perusing the posters in the window of Liberty Travel. She came up beside him and grinned. "Planning your great escape?"

"Not this time—our adventure's closer to home." He was wearing a black sweater and casual charcoal pants, and he seemed nearly as keyed up as she was. When he looked at her, his gaze was warm, gleaming with devilry. "Hey, beautiful."

"Hey." She touched his arm, unable to help herself she was so glad to see him, but as he bent his head to greet her in return, she had a sudden shivery feeling of being exposed—as if Maddy or Yvonne would pop out from behind a street sign and catch them out—so she turned slightly, and his kiss fell on her cheek. Even so, the warm brush of his lips made her gut clench, and she couldn't help leaning into him, breathing him in. 

He smelled of clean, fresh clothes and expensive aftershave, and for a second, she wanted to put the adventure on hold and just take him somewhere safe where they could be alone, easy and comfortable and private, where she could uncover the Neal beneath Nick Halden and put her focus on him, not on breaking and entering and whatever else he had planned. But the bag slung over his shoulder fell forward and the weighty object it held bumped her out of her distraction. This was their night, and he was watching her, bright with challenge. 

"Ready?" he asked.

She raised her chin and nodded.

They started walking arm in arm. It was a pleasant evening, not too many people around. Neal was entertaining as always, attentive and teasing, and El drifted with him through the night, a few blocks down, around one corner, then another, lost in the moment until he drew her sideways into an alley. 

"We're here." He took her to an old metal door. "Show time."

"Here?" The building seemed rundown, possibly abandoned, and there was no sign on the wall or other indication of what was inside. It could have been a warehouse, offices, anything. "What is this place?"

"It's a private gallery," said Neal. "Belongs to a friend of mine who went out of town on business last Saturday. He won't mind, trust me." He set down his bag and extracted a gadget like a large old-fashioned camera connected to a small portable TV, which itself plugged into a battery pack. "There's no one here, but Moz insisted we bring his infra-red scanner and check anyway, as a precaution."

El snickered. "Of course he did. That looks like it weighs a ton."

"Appearances are misleading. It weighs two." He handed her the camera part and showed her how to activate it, demonstrating on his own hand, which glared red-orange on the screen. She turned and moved the scanner in careful arcs, remotely searching the building for warm bodies. There was no one there. 

"Looks like we're good," said El. She gave the scanner back and watched him tuck it into his bag and zip it away. It was time. She almost wished Peter were here with them; he'd be the ultimate lookout, if only he was willing to play this game. But Neal had planned the evening for Audrey and Nick. "Let's do this."

He gestured to the door. "After you."

A car passed the end of the alley, the growl of its engine resonating off the walls. Pedestrians were talking somewhere nearby. Elsewhere in the city, alarms were sounding, police were responding. Even if she and Neal weren't about to do anything technically illegal, it felt like a real heist. She swallowed and looked to him for reassurance, but he was blending into the shadows, almost invisible, watching over her and standing lookout at the same time.

This was what she'd asked for.

She flipped open her leather lock-pick case—prematurely battered, implying she'd done this a hundred times before—and took out the picks. Her hands were shaking so much it took four tries to get the torque wrench into the lock, and once she had, she couldn't feel anything. Her nerves jangled, drowning out all other sensation. Elizabeth Burke didn't pick locks, and a search for her inner Audrey came up empty. She bit her lip and reluctantly stepped away from the door. "I can't do it. You'll have to."

Neal set the scanner on a broken wooden pallet and came to her. "Do you trust me?"

"It's not that." She clasped her hands behind his neck, pulling him into a kiss that started soft and sweet, seeking comfort for her failure, proving that she loved him. But then his arm wrapped around her, his embrace strong, and her nerves sharpened, transforming into edgy, thrilling desire. She forgot the alley and the rest of the world around them, and when he cupped her breast, she moaned and pressed forward, hunger rising up in her, blotting out the last of her qualms. He was her lover, her brilliant beautiful thief, and she wanted to experience his world not as a wide-eyed tourist stumbling along in his wake but as his partner. As Audrey. "I'm ready."

His eyes were dark as night. He kissed her once more and let her go. "You can do this."

"I know." This time, her hands were steady. She pressed her fingertips lightly to the flaking paint and rust patches of the old door for a moment, as if communing with it, and then slid the wrench in smoothly. Neal was back on lookout, but it hardly took any time at all: one pin, then the second, third, fourth. When the fifth caught, she turned the lock. "We're in."

"Good work." He gathered the bag with the scanner, and they slipped inside. There was a wooden staircase leading up into darkness, but he ushered her into an old-style birdcage elevator instead, which creaked and grumbled as they ascended, until it jolted with a loud clunk and stopped. 

"Uh, we're still between floors," she pointed out. She pushed the button again, then hammered it. Nothing happened.

"We're close enough." Unfazed, he concertinaed the inner cage door, revealing the narrow ledge of the next floor's landing. "If you can get up there and open the outer door, there's room for us to crawl through."

"Me?" She looked at him to see if he was joking, but he tilted his head expectantly. Right. This adventure was for her benefit. "You know, we could have taken the stairs," she muttered wryly.

"And miss all the fun?" He grinned, confirming her suspicion that the breakdown was part of his plan. That was reassuring in its way—he wouldn't make her do anything dangerous.

She considered the ledge—a few inches wide, only a little above waist height—and was glad she'd worn sensible shoes. "Give me a boost?"

He did, and a second later she was up there, half-crouching because there wasn't room to stand, and clinging to the cage of the outer door for balance. It gave slightly under her weight, creaking ominously, and she squeaked.

"I won't let you fall," he said, and her pride rose up.

"I'm not going to fall." She stretched out for the door latch, but it was too far. She had to edge forward. Finally she reached it, releasing the catch, and she managed to yank the outer door open a crack, just as she lost her footing and slithered into his arms. He staggered back with her, but neither of them fell, and with his arms around her, his breath hot on her neck, she couldn't care about her gracelessness. She kissed him.

He laughed against her mouth. "Come on."

He pulled the door the rest of the way open and helped her up again, this time so she could crawl through the gap. Then he passed her the scanner. It really was ridiculously heavy. She shoved it aside and offered him a hand. 

He didn't need it. He slid through easily and sprang to his feet with a flourish. "We're here."

'Here' was a small foyer with two regular doors, a sliding double door and the top of the stairs, which yawned eerily. Glancing into the inky depths of the stairwell, El was actually glad they'd taken the elevator, however unreliable it had turned out to be. As for the rest, she didn't know what she'd expected, but the foyer was plain and spare—a little anticlimactic after their feats. 

Neal started to open the double doors. There was a quiet warning beep-beep-beep and then music suddenly blared from the ceiling, scaring her out of her skin. It was so loud it was difficult to make out, but it might have been the Habanera from _Carmen_. Mostly, it felt as if the building were yelling at them in song. And through the crack Neal had made in the doorway, El could see the thin sweep of red lasers like something out of a bank heist movie.

"Shit," she said, panicking, "we have to go," but Neal just shook his head, looking amused even as he winced against the racket.

"It's okay," he shouted. "It's just for show, not connected to anything. There'll be a keypad somewhere." He stuck his head through the doorway.

Her heart raced. She supposed she should be glad it wasn't a siren, but even the music was making it impossible to think clearly. What if the owner had a security company Neal didn't know about? What if the alarm were reporting an intrusion right now? They should get out of here! She flung open the nearest door, looking for a keypad like he'd said, trying to trust him. She'd come this far.

It was a storeroom haphazardly stuffed with junk. A stuffed owl stared down at her malevolently in the gloom, making her recoil. Magnetic tapes were piled in the back corner and half a dozen boxes stacked to her left. And yes, there was the keypad on the wall by the door, its display flashing. She ran to tug at Neal's arm. "I found it."

He came with her, pried the cover off the alarm and yanked some wires loose. 

The abrupt silence left her ears ringing. She sagged against the wall in relief, and her knee bumped the nearest stack of boxes, which teetered and tumbled down, spilling books across the old tile. El bent to gather them—multiple copies of _The Martha Rules_.

She scanned the room again—the tapes, the owl, boxes of Martha Stewart's autobiography. These were Akihiro Tanaka's effects. The owl probably used to perch threateningly over Sophie the Squirrel. And that meant this must be Mozzie's place. Well, that would explain the choice of music.

Her panic ebbed along with the last of her reservations. She hid a grin and followed Neal into the foyer, grabbing him by his sweater and pulling him close. "Maybe your friend decided to turn his gallery into a nightclub for opera lovers."

He breathed a laugh. "Come on, Audrey. There's something I want to show you." 

He turned her, put his hands on her shoulders and steered her through the crack in the double doors. It was dark in there, but she got the sense of a large space filled with mysterious ghostly shapes. 

"What is it?"

"Wait here," he murmured in her ear. His hands withdrew, and a moment later, light flooded the room, dazzling her, forcing her to screw up her eyes against the glare. Then she looked. 

"Oh." She stepped forward and stopped, her stomach lurching. "Nick? Is that a Cassatt? I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be in the National Gallery in DC." It was bold and vibrant, almost jumping off the wall. "When you said a private gallery, I didn't think—I wasn't expecting—" She ground to a halt, horrified and lost for words—and relieved beyond measure that Peter wasn't here to see this, the collected fruits of Neal and Mozzie's criminal exploits. He'd been sanguine, knowing they were up to something, but if he knew about this—

It was unthinkable, all these masterpieces gathered together in this nondescript building. All these stolen treasures. It was absurd, but she couldn't deny the evidence of her eyes. This was the real Nick Halden, and she didn't belong here. She couldn't even pretend. She walked along the interior wall, past a Chagall, a Kandinsky, two others she couldn't place, each glowing like a jewel under its spotlight, and her eyes stung with tears. When she turned the corner, the maze of the gallery continued, endless plain white walls bearing innumerable priceless paintings. 

_I'm like the elevator,_ she thought. _Stuck between floors._ "Neal—"

She glanced at him, unsure how to react or what he expected of her, and saw he was carrying an empty canvas bag. "What's that for?"

"Souvenirs," he said with a grin. "Anything you like. Don't worry, it's not stealing."

Because they were already stolen. Or maybe Nick Halden had a different definition of theft from most people. El shook her head, stepping back, appalled that this was what she'd asked for. "No. No, I can't—I love you, but—"

"Peter didn't tell you, did he?" he interrupted, seeing her dismay. "It's okay, Audrey, they're not real—they're copies."

It took a moment for his meaning to sink in: these artworks, all of them, were forgeries. Neal's forgeries. But it was invoking Peter's name that really made it all right. Peter knew. 

She almost laughed. "Oh my God, I thought—" She shook her head and looked at the paintings with fresh eyes, able to appreciate them now, letting the glamor take hold. "They're amazing. How many are there?"

"As many as you want." He pulled her to him. "I'll copy every painting under the sun if you want me to and build a replica of the Louvre to put them in."

"This gallery. You did all this for me?" She stared up at him, dazed and intoxicated with the extravagance of it, the beauty. Ashamed that she'd doubted him.

"I had some help." He bent to kiss her. "But yes. It's all for you."


	54. Chapter 54

Peter had sandwiches, he had his thermos, he had a game on the car radio. Superficially it was like any other stakeout, but he wasn't trying to catch a criminal tonight. Across the street, Neal and El were acting out their shenanigans in Mozzie's safe house, and Peter was keeping watch. It was unnecessary and over-protective—they could handle themselves, and he should be at home pretending he didn't know anything about what they were up to—but he couldn't help himself. He had to keep them safe.

Okay, that was just an excuse. The truth was he couldn't stay away. He loved them, they loved him, but there was a barrier between them he hadn't been able to surmount, and he didn't understand why. Why couldn't they all be together? If the others didn't see the wisdom of it yet, the potential for total satisfaction, it was up to him to make his case. Seduce them. And he couldn't do that unless he actually spent time with them together. 

What were they doing over there, anyway? They'd disappeared into the alley over an hour and a half ago, there'd been a brief burst of opera music loud enough to make out over the sound of the game, and some flashing red lights in the dark. Then the windows had lit up and everything had gone quiet. Were they having sex in Mozzie's sandpit? Something else, exotic and sophisticated? Nick Halden had led a reckless, extravagant life, by all accounts, and when it came to love, Neal didn't exactly hold back either—who knew what he considered an appropriate third date with his beautiful new accomplice. Curiosity itched under Peter's fingers. He gripped the steering wheel and forced himself to stay in his seat. 

They didn't want him in their fantasy; they probably thought he wouldn't get it. Which wasn't fair, really. Peter had no interest in breaking the law, but he knew as well as anyone that undercover could be fun. Assuming an alter ego, ignoring convention, unleashing one's id.

Neal had promised when he postponed their date that he'd make it up to him. El had said, _You're the only one who can catch him,_ and _Be careful what you wish for._ Echoing through his mind in the dark of the car on this quiet street, her words sounded like an invitation.

They both loved him. If he caught them in the act, maybe they'd let him join in. Or they'd turn him away and he'd know for sure, and then he could stop wishing and learn to be grateful for what he had. 

They were just across the street. El. Neal.

He screwed the lid onto his thermos and killed the radio. The ensuing silence was rife with misgivings, but he couldn't sit here anymore. If it was a misstep, they'd forgive him. If he ruined their moment, they could re-stage their game another night. He grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car and jogged across the street and down the alley. He didn't have a plan for how he was going to get inside, but luck was with him; the lock hadn't caught, and when he tried the door handle, it gave.

The entryway was dark. He made his way up the stairs with his flashlight, past some timber off-cuts, paint buckets and a few sheets of drywall propped against the wall on the second floor landing. On the third floor, the sliding double doors were standing open, light spilling through them. Peter stepped through and temporarily forgot everything else. 

The last time he'd been here, the loft had been an empty, echoing shell. Now it was transformed into a labyrinth of white walls, about eight feet high, hung with gorgeous works of art, a few of which he recognized from Neal's stash. They'd been impressive in that dark, cluttered basement. Here, properly displayed and lit, they were awe-inspiring, so perfect that Peter had a moment's doubt: maybe these were the genuine articles. Maybe Neal had lied.

But no, he never would have taken Peter to them if they were real. They were copies, evidence of Neal's genius. Peter swallowed, remembered his mission and stepped forward, listening. There was the faint murmur of voices, the light happy sound of El's laugh. He tried to navigate toward it as quietly as possible, but the newly installed walls turned him aside. After a few dead ends, he wished he'd left a trail of breadcrumbs. 

Frustrated, he stopped and oriented himself by the ceiling beams. The voices were coming from the north-west corner. The dojo. He passed a van Dyke and _The Fighting Temeraire_ and turned right this time, close and getting closer, holding his breath. This was going to be delicate. He didn't want to shatter their fantasy world; he wanted to enter it.

He rounded a corner and pulled back quickly. They were kissing in the dojo, their outerwear fallen to their feet, a bottle of champagne standing open on the table beside them. El's blouse was unbuttoned, pulled aside, and Neal was pressing her against the wall with his body, his dark head bent, his lips lush against her bare shoulder. His hand slid down, shaping her curves. Peter couldn't see her face, but she was gripping Neal's arm, holding him close and murmuring indistinctly, and their bodies were moving and shifting, grinding together. Turning each other on.

Peter couldn't tear his eyes away. This was what he'd hoped for, what he wanted. They were so gorgeous together, at once familiar and foreign, and he was drawn forward despite himself. He cleared his throat.

Neal looked up, his gaze blurred, and blinked. "Peter?"

"Agent Phil Marlowe," said Peter, grabbing a name out of thin air. Neal had introduced him as Phil twice this week. "FBI."

Neal's eyebrows twitched, and El grinned. Both of them were disheveled, half-dressed, dazed from kissing. Neither making any effort to cover up or hide what they'd been doing. 

Peter's mouth was dry. "Nick Halden and Audrey Gardner. You're trespassing."

El snickered. "Agent Marlowe, however did you find us?"

"Actually, we have permission to be here," said Neal, his gaze brimming with mischief. "You, on the other hand—"

"A rogue agent," said El. "Or do you have a search warrant? Ooh, maybe we should search you and see."

"Just try it," said Peter, struggling to stay in character, to play their game just a little longer. "I find it hard to believe anyone was stupid enough to give you two access to a priceless collection like this."

"Audrey talked them into it," said Neal. "She's very persuasive." The provocation was plain, and Peter's body responded, his cheeks heating, blood thrumming in his veins—

"It's true," said El. "Call the owner if you don't believe us. Michael Clark—I can give you his number."

Peter stopped in his tracks, a chill like ice trickling down his spine. "Michael Clark?"

El covered her mouth. "Oops, I wasn't supposed to tell you his name." She glanced between them. "What?"

"Neal," said Peter. "What the hell?"


	55. Chapter 55

Peter put his hands on his hips and scowled, obviously recognizing the alias and waiting for an explanation, but Neal had none to give. His worst secret was about to spill out, his cover blown. He was going to lose everything that mattered, and there was nothing he could do. If he'd stopped Elizabeth from speaking to Maddy. If Mozzie had come up with a story for his supposed alias that had compelled El to stay quiet. If Neal hadn't screwed up in the first place—

"This is Mozzie's place," said El, oblivious. "I saw the Martha Stewart autobiographies. And Maddy said Michael Clark is Mozzie's alias. You know, I would've expected him to choose something more literary." She raised her eyebrows at them. "What?"

"Peter, please. Don't." _Don't say anything. Don't tell her._ Peter getting even a hint of it was a blow, but it was done. There was no going back from that. Whereas Elizabeth was still blissfully ignorant, and if only Neal could sustain the illusion of smooth, charming Nick Halden, he could keep the games with Audrey and those rare precious moments with Elizabeth too. He could keep the way the corner of her mouth turned down when she was sympathetic, and the sparkle in her eyes when she was excited. Her generosity and insight and her uncompromising ferocity—well, that last would be turned on him any second now. 

Because of course Peter would tell. Peter and Elizabeth didn't keep secrets from each other. For a second, Neal hated them for their inability to deceive, but it was like hating the sun for rising.

Peter—his lover, his partner, the fixed point in his universe, the one who knew him best of all; Peter whom he _needed_ —was standing there as stern as an avenging angel wielding the truth like a flaming sword. "Michael Clark is one of Keller's known aliases," he told El.

Neal felt sick. He stepped back and spread his arms, automatically reaching for a diversion, but El's attention was fixed on Peter.

"Keller?" She pulled the halves of her blouse together, looking confused. "Are you sure? Maddy said Michael Clark was Nick's partner, back in the day. She said—" Then El looked to Neal for confirmation, and her eyes narrowed. "She said he was territorial. Did you and Keller—Were you lovers?"

Neal's throat was dry. The question came out as a croak. "How can you ask me that?"

"Neal," said Peter, compelling the truth out of him.

"Keller's straight," said Neal, fighting back, keeping the desperation out of his voice.

El studied him. "But not for you."

His evasions were only making it worse. He looked away helplessly and admitted the ugly truth. "It was just one time, with Kate. A long time ago, before we really knew him."

"He was one of your threesomes," said Peter, putting the pieces together, grimacing. "Jesus, Neal. Keller? Who were the others—Wilkes and Adler?"

"Peter, no," said El firmly, reproaching him, but Neal flinched anyway. He'd expected Peter's disgust. It was justified. Keller was evil and dangerous, and Neal had brought him into their lives, pasted a bull's eyes on Peter's back. 

"I'm sorry." Words weren't enough. An apology wouldn't fix this.

Peter twitched. "I didn't mean—"

"That's why Keller took Peter," interrupted El, still doing the math. She frowned. "That's why he demanded Kate's ring as ransom."

"It took me a while to realize," said Neal. "I thought he was being competitive. I thought he wanted Kate. We weren't working together, but he kept implying to people that we were."

The corner of her mouth tilted. "At least Maddy was right about one thing; your taste in men has really improved. A lot."

"How can you joke?" said Neal, cringing. 

"You're right, I'm sorry." El took his hand and looked at him with solemn eyes. "You've been through so much, it doesn't bear thinking about. But you're on a winning streak now, okay? You've got us. We're not going to let anything happen to you."

Neal shook his head, awash with doubt. She couldn't mean that. He deserved outrage, not solicitude and acceptance. And then a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and he braced for Peter's wrath, but that didn't come either. 

"She's right," said Peter, clasping his shoulder. "What's past is past—it's got nothing to do with us. You're not responsible for anything he did." He was saying the right things, but compared to his first, brutally honest outburst, the assurances rang hollow. If he'd been angry, if Elizabeth had blamed him for Peter's kidnapping, Neal could have pleaded or persuaded, but this show of good manners and determined absolution, regardless of his sins, left him at a loss. He should be grateful, unutterably relieved they weren't casting him out. He just felt empty.

"Let's go home, okay? All of us." El tugged him toward the door. "We can finish our fantasy some other time."

"Actually, Mozzie's sold the loft. This is a one-time only deal," Neal told her, distracted by the fact that Peter's hand had fallen away and he was keeping his distance now under the guise of fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Then the facts caught up with him: they could never come back. This gallery of his best and favorite artworks would vanish in the light of day, packed up by Mozzie, never to be displayed again. But the fantasy was over anyway. Neal just wanted to get out of here, away from the echoes of his past.

El shrugged philosophically. "There'll be other adventures."


	56. Chapter 56

El looked at her cards and forced herself not to pout. She had nothing. Well, a pair of fours, but she couldn't beat Neal with a pair, no matter what he had. She looked across the table to where he was flicking through a magazine in search of stakes. He seemed subdued. They all were, really—the mention of Keller's name had cast a pall across the evening, highlighting the artifice of Nick and Audrey, interrupting the break-in and bringing them home.

Once they were in the door, Peter had squeezed Neal's shoulder and gone to put coffee on, and El had found herself uncertain. She wasn't Audrey now, Neal wasn't Nick. It had been easy to say the right thing in Mozzie's art gallery loft in the heat of the moment, and El had meant every word, but here in her ordinary home, with Peter in the next room, she didn't know where they stood or how to navigate the space between them. As themselves, she and Neal had been friends, then Peter's partners, united like family, and now—could they be lovers as themselves? Did Neal still want that? He'd been quiet on the drive home, he still wasn't his usual teasing self, and El couldn't summon the confidence to reach out to him yet, so she scooped the deck of cards from the bookcase next to Sophie and challenged him to a poker game. And here they were.

She tried to imagine how she'd feel if someone she slept with turned out to be a murdering psychopath who kidnapped the man she loved. Responsible might well top the list, along with dirty and ashamed. Those reactions weren't rational, but they were human. On the other hand, Neal's past was complicated, she didn't know what he was feeling, and asking or offering sympathy might imply she was making a big deal about something that shouldn't matter. 

She stretched out her foot to press against his under the table and kicked Satchmo instead, who let out a sleepy whine.

"Call." Neal bet a fancy hi-fi system, and El glanced at her cards again. Still just a pair of fours. She tore out an ad for Black Orchid perfume and was about to make a half-hearted effort to prolong the game when Peter came through with the coffee. 

He raised an eyebrow at them and put down the tray. "Deal me in."

"I fold anyway," said El. She tucked the perfume ad back into the magazine and relinquished her cards.

Peter dropped an easy kiss on Neal's temple and took the seat next to him. Neal gave him a restrained smile, gathering the cards and shuffling, cascading them like a professional croupier or a stage magician. 

El knew they all needed to talk, her and Neal especially, but Neal was dealing, and her heart felt raw and vulnerable. It could wait until after the poker.

She picked up her hand. This time she had three fives and a pair of kings: a full house. Was that luck or had Neal dealt it to her deliberately? Were the kings significant? She sent him a silent question, but he was absorbed in his own hand, possibly avoiding her gaze. Maybe he was slipping away and a week from now they'd have fallen back into friendship, into the vee-shape of El and Peter, and Peter and Neal. She bit her lip. No. No, she wouldn't let that happen. 

Peter was eyeing the magazine ads in the center of the table. "What are the stakes?" 

"Anything," said El. She gave him a Vanity Fair, a Cosmopolitan and a stack of Home & Gardens. "Luxuries."

"Who's in?" said Neal.

"Me." El bet the perfume.

Peter played a Lexus, and Neal threw an ad for a Pacific cruise into the pot.

"Is that the cruise or the cruise line?" said Peter.

"Either," said Neal. "Both."

Peter looked at him. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah."

"El?" Peter's eyebrows were up again.

"I'm fine, hon."

Peter looked faintly exasperated. "You two—"

"It's just poker, Peter," said Neal, half innocence, half challenge. "How many cards?"

"Two," said Peter. He discarded and accepted replacements from Neal.

"I'm good," said El. 

"Dealer takes one."

El played an Italian espresso machine from Bon Appétit magazine and looked at Peter. "Are you in?"

"Oh, I'm in." Peter reached behind him for the pen and notepad by the phone, wrote something, folded it and dropped it on the stack of magazine pages. "I'm betting a mystery stake."

Neal's gaze cut across to him, curious. "Changing the rules? All right." He took the notepad and copied Peter's example.

El's stomach twisted. This wasn't just about Keller. She and Neal had shut Peter out, and then Audrey and Nick had shut out her and Neal. This was the consequence of those divisions, this stilted game which was edging into confrontation despite the fact that they all loved each other. It was her fault. She'd started it when she insisted on dating Nick Halden instead of Neal. 

Neal had dealt Peter and himself another card each. He assimilated his into his hand and looked at her, his expression oblique, the perfect poker face. She ached for him. She wanted him. She had to say something, to clear the air, if only she could find the right words—

"El?" said Peter, more gently than she deserved.

"Yeah." She reached for her bag and took out the lock picks and her fake ID. Adding them to the pot felt like throwing them onto a funeral pyre. "I call."

Peter opened the battered leather case. "You have your own lock picks?" 

"I had lock picks. I don't need them anymore," said El. She met Neal's eye and willed him to understand she was laying herself bare. She wanted to be herself with him. "I'm not Audrey."

Peter pursed his lips but didn't comment further. He bet another glossy car ad—El didn't bother to note the make—and the play came back to Neal, who placed his cards face down.

"I'm out." He crossed his arms on the table. "It's down to you two."

El looked from him to Peter to the pile of magazine pages, secrets and Audrey's effects. This was one way she could start to make it right, at least with Peter. "I fold too. It's all yours, hon."

A flicker of surprise crossed Neal's face as Peter gathered the pot toward him. Even Peter looked quizzical. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't supposed to beat Neal Caffrey with a pair of nines."

Neal seemed easier now, relieved somehow. "Now we'll never get to see Peter's mystery stake," he said as an aside. 

In answer, El reached over and plucked the two notes from Peter's winnings, ignoring his protest and fending off his attempt to retrieve them. "I just want to see," she said.

The first was in Peter's handwriting: _The three of us together._ A lump rose in El's throat, a throb of guilt and liberation. _Yes._ That was the answer she'd been avoiding, afraid the others wouldn't want it too. She passed the paper to Neal, watched as he read it, the flare of heat and hope that echoed her own. 

"Peter," he said.

"Neal." 

There was a world of love in that single syllable, and Neal blinked hard and nodded.

El read the second note, this one in Neal's small, neat capitals: _Anything you want from me. Everything._ Coming from Neal, it probably wasn't hyperbole. He'd find a way to give her the moon if she asked for it, to give Peter anything he wanted. 

"Hey, that's mine," said Peter, snatching it out of her fingers.

El grinned at him. "We're married. What's yours is mine. Right, Neal?"

"That's right." His voice was uncharacteristically unsteady, and something broke open inside El's ribcage, releasing a flood of optimism and certainty, coloring the world in gold and love and their own private magic. She grabbed the notepad. _Me,_ she wrote. _El and Peter and Neal._ She dropped it on the table, where they could both see, and then she couldn't keep her distance any longer. 

Neal was on his feet by the time she reached him, welcoming her into his arms and wrapping around her. She hugged him tight. And Peter was there too, and they opened their embrace to him and let him in.

"The three of us," he said.

"Together," said Neal. "Please."

El kissed them, first Peter, then Neal, and excitement kindled low in her belly as she watched them kiss each other, their mouths passionate but gentle. Both of them hers. "All for one, and one for all."


	57. Chapter 57

By the time they got home from Mozzie's loft, Peter's gut was tight, his head spinning with memories of the last time he'd seen Keller: the chilled port and the chess, those damned cigars, the knowing way he'd taunted Neal as if their history gave him a claim. 

Neal and El were caught up in their own thoughts, and Peter kept his expression bland and tried to clear his mind, ashamed and unnerved by the strength of his reaction; he had no right to feel this way, and he wasn't going to let it affect him. He just needed a minute to get his head together. He clasped Neal's shoulder and excused himself to make coffee no one wanted.

The kitchen was cool and quiet, and Peter set the coffee machine going, took down cups and got milk from the fridge—Everything was normal until he found himself white-knuckled, gripping the edge of the sink, staring at nothing with sweat prickling his upper lip and the small of his back. Phantom handcuffs binding him; aching shoulders. For a moment, he was right back in that cage, trapped and helpless, with Lang baiting him and waving a gun around. 

Peter took a deep shuddering breath and then snorted, almost laughing, his shoulders sagging in relief. He wasn't mad at Neal. All his fury and disgust was aimed at the bastards who deserved it—Keller and Lang—and being mad at them was nothing new.

Neal's revelation didn't change anything. Hell, if Peter was going to start policing the past, Neal's perfectly legal choice of bedmates wouldn't even rate compared to some of the stunts he'd pulled, and Peter hadn't let those get in the way. Neal wasn't that guy anymore, and whatever had happened had brought him here, made him who he was now. That was enough to reconcile Peter to anything short of murder—and even then, extenuating circumstances might count for a lot.

Peter ran himself a glass of water and drank it slowly, and by the time he'd finished, he was himself again. He finished making the coffee and went out to see what the others were up to.

One hand of poker later, he finally had Neal and El in his arms, together, and the thrill of that, the certainty and completeness that was the three of them together on the same page, soothed away the last traces of Peter's misgivings. Neal's lean body was hard up against him, his mouth unhesitating and wickedly hot. He teased at Peter's lips, pressing even closer, making Peter's body quicken and his pulse thrum with urgency, and Peter clasped his neck and kissed back until El moaned and someone groped Peter through his pants. Neal pulled away, breathless. His face was flushed, his eyes dark. "God, El!"

"Just lending a hand or two," she said throatily, and Peter, whose brain was lagging from an overload of desire, realized she was cupping both of them, that Neal's heightened color was as much from the fact that El was stroking him as from the kissing. 

Peter's cock throbbed, and he bent to take her mouth—and butted heads with Neal, who was doing the same. "Ow," said Peter, jerking back more from surprise than pain. El snickered and reached up to kiss their temples, where they'd collided.

"Can we take this upstairs?" said Peter. Nick and Audrey might prefer sex on a rooftop or up against a wall, but this was Neal and El, Peter's loves, and he wanted them in his bed.

Neal winked. "Dealer's choice, and it's your turn to deal."

"Whatever you want, hon," said El, releasing Peter's cock and sliding her hand to his hip. "Just so long as one of you is planning to fuck me really soon."

"Only one of us?" Neal moved behind her and put his arms around her, his long, sensitive fingers toying with her nipple through her blouse, his other hand delving between her legs. He pulled her against him and nuzzled the angle of her neck, making her arch back and lean her head against his shoulder, her hair tumbling down between them. 

She murmured his name, her eyes fluttering, but they were both watching Peter, checking his reaction. His wife in his boyfriend's arms, putting on a show for him. El was grinding back against Neal, and they were the hottest thing Peter had ever seen, their dark hair, the way they moved together, the liberties they took with each other. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed with lust and possibilities. Location suddenly seemed supremely unimportant. 

Peter surged forward and kissed El, first framing her face with his hands and then hugging both of them together, feeling clumsy and adoring. "Christ, I want to watch you two." 

It wasn't the whole truth. He craved their attention on him too, was greedy for pleasure and release with them, but in the long term their threesome was only going to work if they could all hold back sometimes—be patient and generous and wait their turn—and he needed them to know they could make it work. Besides, he had been wanting this, the opportunity to see them. It wasn't exactly a hardship.

"Aww," said El, turning sideways in Neal's arms. "I was hoping to get to see you guys at last."

Neal smirked. "I'm more than happy to accommodate both of you. Just sayin'."

"Showoff," said Peter, fondly.

"Hey, I like this plan," said Neal. "I win."

"Bedroom," El reminded them, herding them toward the stairs. "That's what the dealer said."

Upstairs, Peter sat himself down on his side of the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched Neal strip off his sweater, El put her arms around him. Somewhere between the dining room and here, their exhibitionism had fallen away. El's gaze was soft and serious now. "Hello, Neal."

"Hi, El." Neal bent and touched his lips to hers, slow and sensuous as if exploring her mouth for the first time, and her hand came up to brush his cheek, then wrapped around his shoulder as their kiss deepened. Peter held his breath. It wasn't just that they were drop-dead gorgeous, or that they were his—it was the desire and affection that smoldered between them. They'd only started dating a few days ago, but they clearly adored each other, and their adventures had cemented their bond. Peter let go of any lingering frustration at being kept out of the Nick-Audrey loop; they'd needed that time to find their footing, to learn each other, and this, here, was the culmination of that. He was the luckiest guy in the world that he got to witness it.

Now they were undressing each other, peeling back clothing, unfastening and unbuttoning with such deliberate care that Peter wondered if he were more impatient than they were. Slowly revealing skin—El's shoulders, Neal's chest glowing warm under her hands in the lamplight. The creamy swell of El's breasts set free of her bra, her nipples tight. Neal caught her to him, wrapping his arms around her, and their kisses weren't gentle anymore, and his fingers dragged down her spine to her ass. El moaned, and Neal swore, and they broke apart, stripping themselves the rest of the way, swept up in need as Peter watched, dry-mouthed, and tried not to touch himself. If he started, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop, and he had no intention of passing on his turn with Neal later.

El landed beside Peter on the bed, bouncing slightly and flinging out a hand to randomly squeeze his thigh, a token gesture of inclusion, but her attention was fixed on Neal, and Peter was just fine with that. He could sympathize, especially when Neal, naked except for his tracker, crawled up from the foot of the bed and knelt between her legs, holding himself over her, his stomach taut, his cock hard and flushed. He shifted his weight to one arm and ran the other hand over her collarbone, her breast and stomach, down to the dark thatch of hair between her legs, making her breath catch. "Oh god, El, you're incredibly beautiful."

"Come here, Neal." She dragged him down and kissed him. "Let's fuck."

"Yes." Neal sat back on his heels and looked at Peter, humor gleaming through his lust haze. "Hey, there. Got any condoms? You could spare me the indignity of digging through my pants on the floor."

"Oh." El blinked. "That reminds me, I got my test results back. We're good." She reached for Peter's hand. "Hon, would you mind if we did without the condom? It's okay if you'd rather not."

"Whatever you want," said Peter. He kissed her palm and released her.

El raised her eyebrows at Neal. "Whatever you want. Contraception isn't an issue, so—"

"Peter, remind me to thank you properly later," said Neal. He moved over El again, angling to one side so he could kiss her and do something between her legs with his hand, maybe slide his fingers into her. Peter couldn't see, but the next minute he had a perfect view as Neal and El locked gazes, and Neal pushed his erection into her, intimately joining their bodies. 

Peter felt a shock of intense arousal and vicarious pleasure, his whole body alive with excitement. He groaned helplessly.

The others didn't seem to notice. El's lips were parted, her breath coming loud and fast. She rubbed her thumb across Neal's lower lip, wound her legs around his waist and rocked up to meet him, and after a few thrusts, they settled into a rhythm, Neal's back and ass flexing athletically as he supported himself on one arm and rested his other hand high on El's thigh. El had both her hands free and was touching his face, stroking his hair back, and finally, as their movements intensified, clutching his shoulders. "Oh," she said. "Oh yes. Fuck, yes."

Her cries grew louder, less coherent, some lost in Neal's mouth or the angle of his neck, others almost echoing off the walls. Peter rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand, engrossed. He'd never seen her turned on from this angle before, the jut of her jaw as she threw her head back, the tangle of her hair curling on the pillow toward him. She was like a siren in a legend, ensnaring Neal with her beauty; she was Peter's wife, sexy and amazing, and he'd always known that about her, but this was like discovering her all over again. 

Neal slid his slick tongue into her mouth, and Peter, undone by the sight of them, naked and entwined, his nostrils filled with the musky scent of their sex, gripped his own cock tightly to keep from coming too soon, but he was still wearing too many clothes. He threw off his shirt and undershirt and shucked off his pants, wanting to at least share their nakedness, to hold them when they were done.

"I love you," El told Neal, in the desperate tone that meant she was close. "God, I love you. I—" The bed shook with their movements. Neal was working hard, starting to sweat, and El's exclamations went hoarse and then completely silent as her orgasm stole her voice.

Neal held it together, giving her what she needed as she quaked under him, and then his hips stuttered, and he groaned long and low and heartfelt.

"You," said El, dazed. She pulled him back into a kiss, and Peter's restraint broke. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Neal's shoulder and then El's.

"Jesus, you two," he said roughly. "Wow."

Neal's eyes were blurred, his breathing still unsteady. "Gimme a minute, okay, Mario?"

"Take your time." Peter slid his hand down the curve of Neal's sweaty back. "I'm enjoying this very much." He twisted a lock of El's hair around his finger and watched as they resumed kissing, slow again now, and tender, and it felt like his heart was breaking with how much he loved them.

Finally, Neal moved to lie between Peter and El, and looked up at Peter. "We're good?"

Peter was distracted, trailing a finger over Neal's chest from nipple to nipple, balancing not wanting to rush him with being eager for attention. He dragged his focus to Neal's words. "Mm?"

"We're good? This and—and everything," said Neal, encompassing him and El, and the earlier events of the evening. All of that seemed like a long time ago, utterly irrelevant, but apparently Neal didn't know that.

"We're perfect," said Peter. Neal was still searching his face, so Peter grinned, teasing him. "Hey, I'm not the one who thought your life before prison was all sexy, romantic fun and games."

"Hon," said El, almost a whine, and she reached across to swat at him. She got up on one elbow and looked down at Neal, smiling but embarrassed. "I loved being Audrey with you. Thank you for indulging me."

"It was my pleasure," Neal told her. "Seriously."

Peter was assailed by sudden qualms. "Are you sure this is really what you want? Should I not have interrupted your date night?"

"You joined in." El's smile was warm, with no sign of regret. "Lateral problem solving must be contagious."

"The adventure was mostly for El's benefit," said Neal. "I've kind of been there, done that, got the anklet."

El smoothed a stray curl from his forehead. "The gallery was amazing, and the break-in. I'll never forget it." She let out a sleepy, satisfied sigh. "But you know, you guys are my adventure now."


	58. Chapter 58

Neal was lying between his very favorite people in the world, feeling incredibly smug. They were all naked, he was still blissed out from sex with El, and when he was ready, he was going to get laid again—with Peter this time. Best plan ever.

El pressed a final kiss to his shoulder, grabbed a handful of tissues and stood up. She snagged Peter's business shirt from the floor. "I'll just be a minute. Don't start without me."

Neal looked at Peter and grinned, but Peter seemed thoughtful. There was a crease between his eyebrows.

"What?" said Neal.

"Nothing, I just—" Peter winced slightly. "I'm sorry about what I said at the loft."

"Specifically?" said Neal, his heart sinking. He shouldn't have started this conversation. Should have assumed they were good rather than asking. 

"Your threesomes. Wilkes and Adler," said Peter. "It was a low blow. I didn't mean that."

"Forget about it." Neal hoped Peter would take him at his word. He didn't want to talk about Keller, especially not here and now, and the con man in him was urging him to misdirect. He bent his knee and deliberately eyed Peter's erection; it was flagging slightly and Neal could fix that. 

But Peter wasn't so easily distracted. "It took me off guard."

"Okay." Neal sighed and met his gaze squarely, determined not to squirm or change the subject. Get it over with, accept the apology and move on. "It's fine, Peter."

Peter laid a firm hand low on Neal's ribs. "Your past is yours. It made you who you are and it landed you here." His mouth twisted ruefully. "I know some of it was rough, and I'm sorry you had to go through it, but nothing you've done could make me stop loving or respecting you. I need you to know that."

He was saying the impossible as if he meant every word, and because it was Peter, Neal believed him. A deep, twisted tension that Neal had lived with every day for as long as he could remember—the knowledge that he was the sum of his past, he always would be—unraveled and eased, leaving him aching a little but in a good way, both humbled and light as air. He propped himself up to mirror Peter and leaned in to kiss him. "Thank you."

"And one of these days we're going to catch your stalker ex," added Peter, "and lock him away where he can't terrorize you and yours anymore."

"He's not my ex," said Neal, revolted, pushing him away. "God, Peter, it was one time, years ago."

Peter smirked, his gaze warm with understanding, and Neal snorted and rolled his eyes. It was a joke now. His worst secret hadn't changed anything, or if it had, it had brought them closer. 

Neal hadn't thought he could love Peter any more than he already did, but here he was, falling further. "Ask me, I'll tell you anything."

Peter's hand moved to Neal's hip, his thumb stroking the crease of his thigh. "Some other time. Come here."

They were making out and groping each other shamelessly when El got back. She grinned. "I knew waiting was too much to ask."

"We waited," said Peter, raising his head. "This is waiting." He was swollen-lipped, disheveled and breathing hard. He was also fully erect again, and Neal was most of the way there. Neal grabbed his wrist and directed him to Neal's ass. 

"I'm done waiting." 

El fished in the nightstand drawer and produced lube. "I imagine you'll be wanting this." She settled on the edge of the bed, taking Peter's place from earlier, obviously ready to enjoy the show. 

She'd put on the shirt and rolled up the sleeves, but she hadn't buttoned the front. Neal caught a glimpse of her breast curving beneath the thin blue cotton, the smooth slope of her belly, and then Peter's thick finger was circling his hole, breaching him, pushing in just a fraction too slowly, and Neal closed his eyes and pushed down to meet him, focusing on his own arousal and staying relaxed, letting himself anticipate. This stage wasn't always comfortable, but once he warmed up, once Peter was inside him, it would be worth it, it would feel amazing. 

Peter kissed him and then withdrew his finger and climbed over to lie behind him so they were both facing El. He pushed in again, two fingers now, more lube. The burn was starting to ease. "Yeah," breathed Neal, urging him on.

"Condom?" said Peter.

"Your call." Neal ground back, burying his face in the pillow at the same time, absorbed in the sensation. 

"Um," said El. "No offense and I don't want to cramp your style or anything, but if you want blow jobs in the morning or, you know, sex with me—" She wrinkled her nose.

"Condom," said Peter.

"Or shower," said El.

"Condom," repeated Peter, decidedly.

Neal shrugged. "There's always next time." Next time and the next time and the time after that; weeks stretching out ahead of him, months, years, decades of being loved and making love and spending time with Peter and El, having breakfast, walking Satchmo, teasing and going to galleries, solving crimes and playing fake high stakes poker; Neal's habitual restlessness, the itch that dared him to steal things just to prove he could, was nowhere to be found—only love and excitement. El was right. This was the real adventure. 

He might have tried to articulate that, but Peter was murmuring, "Ready?" in his ear, and Neal said, "Do it," and then there was the hot tight slide of Peter's cock stretching him wide, pushing all the way in until Peter's hips pressed against his ass and his body was hard up behind Neal, and Neal began to melt. 

Peter smoothed over his chest and kissed his ear, his neck. "One of these days, I'm going to ask you to do this to me." He punctuated the promise with a roll of his hips that made Neal clench with pleasure.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll make it good." The thought was heady and powerful.

"God, you guys," said El huskily, and Neal forced his eyes open and saw her watching, her lips parted, her hand over her heart. He tried to smile at her, but Peter was driving in hard and deep and steady, exactly the way Neal needed it, and Neal couldn't keep his eyes open, couldn't focus on anything else. His body was singing, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, his toes were curled so tight they felt like fists, and Peter was fucking him perfectly. God, it was perfect, the stretch and the intimacy and the tiny edge of burn just enough to inch him higher and higher. He forgot about El, about the bed and the room and the world, about everything except Peter's body moving through and around him, Peter's fingernails scraping over his chest, digging in, marking him and claiming him. He wanted to be claimed, he wanted proof. Maybe jewelry. The anklet didn't count anymore—that was the marshals' and the DoJ—and he couldn't have a wedding band, but maybe cufflinks or a tiepin or some small token. He wanted to belong to them as surely as they belonged to each other. 

Even as he thought it, the impulse dissolved. There was no holy grail to strive for; he already had it. He already belonged. 

Peter was getting close, Neal could feel it in the clutch of his hands, the steel band of his arm around Neal, and the way his thrusts were growing uneven, holding each in-stroke for just a little longer, as if he were trying to find his way right into the core of Neal, into his heart. "I've got you," murmured Neal, half turning to speak over his shoulder. "Love you." 

The words trailed off into a groan as Peter wrapped his hand around Neal's cock and started stroking him, and Peter covered Neal's mouth with his own, sliding his tongue in. It was an awkward angle, messy, with too many teeth, and it didn't give Peter a lot of leverage to move either. He tightened his hand—either involuntarily or to compensate—and Neal was washed through with heat and a kind of dark, sensual euphoria so exquisite it hurt. He swore into Peter's mouth and let go, pulsing into Peter's hand, elated and deliciously wrung out.

He broke the kiss before his neck could cramp, untwisted and stretched against Peter and arched back to meet him, wanting to give him everything. Peter pressed his face into Neal's hair and ploughed into him, over and over, faster and faster, until he jerked to a halt deep inside. He thrust raggedly a few more times, and then both of them froze. Neal thought he could feel Peter's heart racing, feel the throb of Peter's orgasm.

At last they slumped together, breathlessly. 

"Wow," said El softly. "You should sell tickets."

"Private showings," said Neal. "Very select. Invitation only." Peter was kissing his shoulder, his neck, and Neal nudged Peter's hip, signaling he should pull out. When he had, Neal rolled to face him so he could kiss him properly. "Hey there."

"No tickets," said Peter. "Just us."

"Yeah." Neal yawned. "Shame it's a school night. I should go home soon."

The mattress moved behind him, and then El was there, her arms snaking around his waist. "Don't go."

"The anklet—" said Neal. He wasn't going to do anything that might in any way endanger their being together.

Peter rubbed his toes lazily along the arch of Neal's foot. "Stay. If anyone asks we'll say you took the guest room. It'll be fine."

Given Peter was the official worrier of the three of them, Neal was willing to trust him on that. He sighed happily, trapped between the two of them. "Okay."

The crinkles around Peter's eyes deepened. Then he raised his head to look at El. "Are we moving the beds again?"

"No," said Neal.

El kissed his ear. "No," she agreed. "I don't want you that far away, either of you." She unceremoniously scrambled over Neal and half fell, half insinuated herself between them, heedless of the slick patch on Neal's belly or anything else. She must have discarded the shirt at some point, because she was naked again. "Hey, hon," she said to Peter, beaming.

Peter shook his head, amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Gambling, orgies, all sorts of shenanigans," he told Neal. "You know she's trouble."

"She's the best kind of trouble," said Neal, sliding his hand down El's side, encountering Peter's fingers already on her waist. The two of them were warm and perfect and all his.

Peter bent to kiss El, sounding as smug as Neal felt. "You're right about that. The very best kind."


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some months later...

For reasons unexplained, the DoJ had booked out half a floor of the federal building for the hearing, but the room was almost empty: just a security guard at the door, a long table where the three officials were seated and a single chair facing them. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, and the building's air conditioning was no match for the sunlight pouring in the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

El sat down, feeling like she was the one on trial.

"State your name for the record, please," said one of the officials.

"Elizabeth Leslie Burke."

"This is a hearing to collect evidence about Neal Caffrey, to determine whether to commute the remainder of his sentence. How do you know Mr. Caffrey?"

"His handler, Peter Burke, is my husband. Neal is also a family friend." It was the line she, Peter and Neal had agreed upon. It chafed, but she could hardly say the three of them had woken up together in Neal's bed that morning, or that after her shower, Neal had grabbed a Sharpie and sketched Picasso's Blue Nude on her thigh for luck. 

El studied the people she was addressing: one woman and two men, all wearing polite, neutral expressions. Listening attentively. Formal. They might have preconceptions about Neal, but they weren't invested in the outcome of the hearing; they just wanted to do a good job. It was up to her and Neal's other character witnesses to persuade them to set him free. If they failed—another two years of the anklet, of Neal going home at a so-called reasonable hour. Of being vigilant in public and strategizing in private. They were practiced at it now, they had routines and methods, but it was still a constant source of concern, especially for Peter. The possibility of commutation had been unexpected, a reprieve like divine intervention, and they'd spent the last six weeks on edge, waiting for today. If it didn't turn out well, they'd all be devastated.

El took a deep breath and remembered facing down Diana all those months ago. She could do this. Maybe she'd end up friends with these people too, once the hearing was over. Meet them for coffee.

The woman, who seemed to be the board spokesperson, made a note and then said, "Mr. Caffrey came into this legal system as a criminal. The question before this board today is: has he changed?"

"He's paid his debt," said El. Kate's death, the stigma of conviction, four years of his life in a cell—the losses were unfathomable, even to her, even knowing Neal as well as she did. "And he's changed. There are people who care about him very much, and he wouldn't let them down. I know this." 

That wasn't the whole truth: she'd changed too, she and Peter. Their relationship with Neal had transformed all three of them, making them at once more reckless and sneakier, optimistic and guarded, and always fiercely protective of each other. El suppressed a grin. Maybe Peter had been right all those months ago: they had weaponized their marriage.

Sudden optimism struck now, in the large, over-heated room. Certainty that tonight and for the whole weekend—maybe for the rest of her life—she'd have both her boys home with her. Maybe it was time to subject Neal to the labradoodle mafia. She forced her attention back to the hearing and continued, cutting off the spokesperson's next question. 

"The only reason Neal's wearing that anklet is because he believed the woman he loved was in trouble. He was right. She was murdered a few months later. His actions were wrong, but they were understandable. And he didn't hurt anyone when he broke out of prison. He didn't even threaten or restrain anyone, or try to evade capture or resist arrest. 

"Since he's been working with my husband, he's been a model parolee." It was true as far as the official record went; the confrontation with Fowler and Neal's few misdemeanors had never been reported. "He's helped recover many valuable stolen items, including an entire U-boat of art and treasure stolen by the Nazis, and assisted in the arrest of the notorious criminal, Vincent Adler."

The spokesperson looked unimpressed, but El tried not to take that personally. They already knew about the U-boat and Adler being behind bars. She'd said everything she could. 

The spokesperson met her gaze, openly assessing El's own character and her truthfulness. It all hinged on that. El did her best to look like a responsible business woman married to an upstanding FBI agent. Again, it was true—just not the whole truth. 

"Should Neal Caffrey be set free?"

"Yes," said El firmly. "He's proven himself, and four years is too long a punishment for his crime. Neal should be free."

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Burke." The woman smiled slightly, and the man on her right was nodding. 

"Thank you." El desperately wanted to ask if she'd done all right, if they'd made up their mind or at least which way they were leaning, but disrupting the process would only undermine her testimony. She stood up and headed for the door.

Outside, Peter and Neal were waiting with June to take her to lunch. 

"How did it go?" said June. She'd given her statement right before El.

El bit her lip. "I don't want to jinx it. Let's go eat."

She squeezed both Peter's and Neal's hands, because she could do that, no one would think anything of it. Neal was wearing the signet ring she and Peter had given him, and El could feel hope and optimism flowing between the three of them. Together they could do anything. Whatever happened, it would be all right.

 

END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Our secret lights up the world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021249) by [china_shop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop)




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